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An Illustrated Monthly 

Vol. XL VI I 

XonDon : 



C nr\n\ ?91 * Original from 





Illustrations by W, Williams. 
" ALL IN A DAY'S WORK " . W. Robert Foran. 603 

Illustrations by Chailes Crombie. 

APPARITION, THE Ivan Turgenev. 426 

Illustrations by £. Wallcousins. 


Illustrations by H. R. Millar. 

" AULD HOOSE, THE " J.J.BeU. 258 

Illustrations by Warwick Reynolds. 

BALLOON PHOTOGRAPHY OF TO-DAY . . Arthur /. Ireland. 390 

Illustrations from Photographs by Captain Spelter ml 

Illustrations by an entirely new method from Photographs. 
BIRDS OF FASHION, THE S. L. Bensusan. 72 

Illustrations from Photographs. 

BITS OF LIFE. VIII.— Ulysses and the Dogman O.Henry. 66 

Illustrations by Treyer Evans. 


Illustrations from Photographs, 
BOYAR'S BRIDE, THE. A Russian Folk Story Baroness E. Bila. 354 

Illustrations by A. E, Jackson. 
BOY SCOUT, THE Richard Harding Davis. 363 

Illustrations by Dudley Tennant 
"BY OUR READERS" 65,509 

Illustrations by H. K. Elcock. 


Illustrations byJFrank Wiles. 
CAPABLANCA, JOSE : The Latest Chess Genius Henry E. Dudeney. 91 

Illustrations from Photographs. 
"CARICATURE, MY BEST" By WeU-kttmvn Caricaturists of the Day. 455,567 

Illustrations from Drawings. 
CHAIN OF LIFE, THE C.R.Haines. 702 

Illustrations by Charles Folkard. 

CHESS, LIVING Mrs. Herbert Vivian. 304 

Illustrations by H. R. Millar, and from Photographs. 


Illustrations from a Facsimile. 

COINCIDENCES By Our Readers. 420 

Illustrations by Lewis Baumer. 


COMPETITION, PICTURE STORY-Re*uh : « The Two Red Suits" .. .. C. C. Hardy. 716 


Illustrations from Photographs. 

CRUMBS OF THOUGHT Adam Ranhine 714 

Illustrations by T. J. Overnell. 

CURIOSITIES 119, *39, 359, 479, 599, 7*9 

Illustrations from Photographs. 

DANCER IN DARKNESS, THE Herman Scheffauer. 123 

Illustrations by Thomas Somerfteld. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 

DAY'S WORK, MY James Welch. 132 

Illustrations by Alfred Leete. 

DETECTIVE FEATS, SOME CLEVER , . . George R. Sims 611 

Illustrations by Frank Wiles. From 

DIVES fSJ^S* b^ UNirERSITYOF'Mf^M^^ 4§3 

, INDEX. Hi. 

I PAG*. 

FASHION, THE BIRDS OF S. L. Bcnsusan. 72 

Illustrations from Photographs. 
FILM, HEROINES OF THE. Their Adventures Grave and Gay Frederick A. Talbot. 96 

Illustrations from Photographs. 
FOURTH MAN, THE Austin Philips 23 

Illustrations by Warwick Reynolds. 
FRENCH LONDON, A Leslie Beresford. 406 

Illustrations by Tony Sarg. 

FULL BACK Ole Luk-Oie. 3 

Illustrations by C. Fleming Williams. 

GIFT HORSE, THE . . .. Frederick Orin Bardett. 194 

Illustrations by G. Henry Evison. 

Illustrations by H. R. Millar. 

I GOLF, ODD INCIDENTS AT James Braid. 202 

! Illustrations by Tom Wilkinson, and from a Photograph. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 
I HEROINES OF THE FILM. Their Adventures Grave and Gay Frederick A. Talbot. 96 

Illustrations from Photographs. 
HOBSON'S FRIEND Bart Kennedy. 500 

Illustrations by Helen McKic. 
HUMOURS OF WINTER SPORTS, THE Eustace White and Fleming Williams. 251 



Carlile, Prebendary .168 

Illustration by Dudley Tennant. 

Illustration by John Cameron. 

Seppings-AVright, H. t. . 170 

Illustration by the Author. 


Illustrations by James Durden. 

KIDNAPPER, THE Armiger Barclay. 383 

Illustrations by A. Gilbert. 


v . Illustrations from Photographs. 

LOHR, MARIE: Something About Myself 432 

Illustrations from Photographs. 
LOVE MARRIAGES TURN OUT THE BEST ? DO. A Symposium of the Opinions of many well-known 

English and Foreign Celebrities in various walks of life 523 

Illustrations by G. H. Evison. 

MAGIC POWDER, THE E. Merry weather. 226 

Illustrations by H. R. Millar. 

MAN OF MEANS, A c. H.Boviltand P.G.Wodehouse. 

I.— The Landlady's Daughter 460 

II. — The Bolt from the Blue * * 577 

III.— The Episode of the Theatrical Venture .. 674 

Illustrations by Alfred Leete. 
MAN WHO KILLED MARSTON, THE Arthur Eckersley. 41 

Illustrations by A. C. Michael. 
MARRIAGE BY CAPTURE Motley Roberts. 537 

Illustrations by Stanley Davi*. 

MARRY, WHY MEN DO NOT. Is it the Fault of Man or Woman? 50 

MAUDE, CYRIL, MAKES UP AS GRUMPY Wendell Phillips Dodge. 684 

Illustrations from Photograph*. 

MAYDUE COURT AFFAIR, 1 HE Harold Steevens. 173 

Illustrations by Graham Simmons. 


H R H. The Infanta Eulalia of Spain. 13, 184, 317, 372, 492 
Illustrations from Drawings by Arthur Becher and W. K. Webster, and from Photographs. 

I MERCY OF THE LAW. THE J amts Oliver Curwood. 138 
Illustrations by J. F. Woolrich. 

Illustrations from Photographs. 

, " NULLOS " : The New Call at Royal Auction Bridge Florence Irwin. 34c 

I NURSERY DAYS. Being Some Random Recollections of an Average Childhood . e Walter Emanuel. 5:9 

J Illustrations by Lewis Baumer. 





OFFICE ATHLETICS Harold Sleevens. 312 

Illustrations by H. M. Batenian. 
OH I JAMES!. MayEdginion. 78,153,3*6,442,555 

Illustrations by Treyer Evans. 
OPERATIONS, SHOCKLESS : Overcoming One of the Last Perils of Surgery . . Burton J. Hendrick. 147 

PATCH OF NETTLES, THE Paul Bourget. 207 

Illustrations by Leon FaureL 
PAYNE, EDMUND: xMeandering Memories 267 

Illustrations from Photographs. 
PEARL PENDANT, THE . . Maud Stepney Rawson. 276 

Illustrations by Cyrus Cuneo. 
PERPLEXITIES. A Page of Puzzles Henry E. Dudeney. 112, 233, 358, 478, 595, 707 

Illustrations from Diagrams. 

Illustrations from Facsimiles. 
PREACHER, THE Christabel Lowndes Yates. 636 

Illustrations by Hy. Coller. 
PRINCE AND THE TAILOR, THE Retold jwm the German by W. J. L. Kiehl. 708 

Illustrations by H. R. Millar. 

PRIZE, THE Austin Philips. 398 

Illustrations by Fred. Leist, R.B.A. 


Cooper, Gladys 665 

LOhr, Marie 432 

Payne, Edmund 267 

Roberts, Morley 217 

Welch, James ■ 132 

Illustrations from Photographs and Drawings. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 

Burton J. Hendrick. 147 

Edward Cecil. 55 

F. Anstey. 690 

D. B. Armstrong. 287 

Frank E. Verney. 243 


Illustrations by Dorothy Wheeler. 
SHOCKLESS OPERATIONS : Overcoming One of the Last Perils of Surgery 

Illustrations by Wilton Williams. 


Illustrations by Steven Spurrier. 

Illustrations from Facsimiles. 

Illustrations by Christopher Clark, R.I. ,„,,,„.,, 

STONY HEART, THE. A Story of the Schwarzwald. Retold from the German hy W.J.L.KtehL 105 

Illustrations by H. R. Millar. 
SUSPENSE Arthur Eckersley. 655 

Illustrations by Gerald Leake, R.B.A. 

TANGO, TIPS FOR THE Phyllis Dare. 33 

Illustrations from Photographs. 

UNDERSTUDY, THE W.W.Jacobs. 413 

Illustrations by Will Owen. 

WINTER SPORTS, THE HUMOURS OF Eustace White and Fleming Williams. 251 

WOMEN AS WITS Joseph Heighten. 3A5 

Illustrations from Photographs and Engravings. 

by Google 

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Vol. xlvii. 

JANUARY, 1914. 

No. 277, 




Iffastratecl hy 

T is the event of the football 
year — the match for which 
both schools have strk^en 
during the season. The Whites 
are two points ahead , but 
there are only five minutes to 
play, and it is still anybody's 
game. Amidst intense excitement play has 
been slowly forced into the Reds' twenty-five, 
and each scrum now starts closer to their 
line and more in front of their goal. But 
their defence is good. Time after time does 
the ball appear from the forest of legs and 
get slung out by the White scrum half, and 
time after time is the dangerous attack thus 
initiated smothered by the fierce tackling 
of the defenders, or spoiled by a hasty pass 
or a fumbled ball. The tired players of both 
sides, inspired by the frenzied encouragement 
of their supporters, are making the utmost 
efforts, the Whites to ensure the match by 
increasing their lead, their opponents to score 
once again and so reverse the position. And 
there is time yet. The ball is slippery, and 
one intercepted pass may give Red the match. 
The growing darkness, added to the autumn 
mist which always hangs over the clay soil of 

tized by Ci 

VoL xlvii.— 1. 

the football ground, increases the anxiety 
of the White full back now peering at the 
game from the near end of the field. At this 
distance he can only divine what is happening 
by intuition , for he can barely see the dark 
and greasy ball as it flies from hand to hand, 
and is only able to guess at its course outside 
the steaming scrum from the movements and 
attitudes of the players, He is a slim youth, 
and as he stands there in the drizzle, arms 
akimbo, tapping the muddy ground with 
one foot, he presents a lonely figure, At 
intervals he prowls backwards and forwards 
slowly, watchfully, now blowing on his hands, 
now putting them into his pockets r now 
swinging his arms across his chest, at times 
performing a solemn shuffle in the sticky mud. 
It is raining, and cold with that raw r chill 
which penetrates to the bones of all who are 
not taking active exercise , and the back has 
had little to do for some twenty minutes ; in 
fact, since he failed to save that try, when the 
big oaf of a wing three-quarter sent him 
sprawling by a hand-off, the muddy impress 
of which still stings on his face. The memory 
of his failure, also, rankles , though it was 
caused by bad luck, A slip in the mud, and 
he had tackled a thought too high to stop a 



faster, heavier man in his stride. Of no 
special physique, and blessed neither with 
great speed nor with phenomenal powers of 
kicking, he owes his position in the team 
to two qualities — pluck and coolness. He is a 
safe tackle. 

Though by now there is hardly any colour 
distinguishable amongst the players, except 
brown of various shades, their arrangement 
can be seen to keep on swiftly changing like 
the patterns in a kaleidoscope ; and as a 
fresh outburst of roars sounds from the far 
end of the ground, where the crowd is thickest, 
the centre of action shifts over to the Whites' 
left. To judge from the shouts, they must be 
very near the Reds' line. 

The Whites' back stands still, tense, on his 
guard, for at these moments of quick move- 
ment anything may happen. He also glances 
at the clock over the pavilion. 

The high-pitched shouting is taken up 
closer down the ropes, and there is a sudden 
change in its tone. The back crouches expec- 
tant, waiting for a long relieving kick from 
the Reds, which, however, does not come. 
Instead, the whole game seems to approach, 
the players to loom larger. Then out from the 
ruck bursts a Red with the ball. A White 
three-quarter dives at him and is floored. A 
second White player meets the same fate, 
and the runner staggers on amidst a fresh 
outburst of confused yells. On, on he comes 
down the field, gathering speed with every 
stride. Behind him stream a few of both 
sides : in front, between him and his oppo- 
nents' goal-line, there is one player only. 

The last hope of the Whites begins to sidle 
cautiously to his left with a crab-like motion. 
As he moves he rubs his hands down his short 
knickers, and every few steps clicks his heels 
together to shake the mud from his boots, for 
he does not mean to slip this time. His face 
is set and his mind is working quickly. He 
knows that if he does not tackle the man with 
the ball, and tackle him thoroughly, the game 
is lost. He is too absorbed to be rendered 
nervous by the fact that he shares the atten- 
tion of the whole field ; but he notices sub- 
consciously that the shouting has almost 
died away. By now even the bulk of the two 
teams are standing still, watching, for they 
can do nothing ; the fate of the game is out 
of their hands. 

As he watches the runner who floored him 
with such ignominy the last time they met 
he smiles slightly, partly from the lust of 
personal combat, partly because he knows 
that this somewhat lumpish player can only 
run straight and trusts to his speed and brute 

by L^OOgle 

strength to get through. Thank Heaven, it 
is not their long-haired centre who, ball held 
out in front, as if to pass, and head wagging, 
snipes irresponsibly down the field in a succes- 
sion of feints and wriggles which leave his 
paralyzed opponents standing, or more often 
sitting, in the mud ; nor one of those tricky 
performers who at the last moment either kick 
over the opposing back's head and race for 
the ball or pretend to kick and run on. No j 
it is to be a straightforward thing this time. 

Full back carefully regulates his pace and 
moves in a nicely-adjusted curve so that his 
path will intersect that of the advancing 
runner just upon the touch-line. He will 
nurse the fellow right down the line and 
throw him into touch. Then, before the 
ball can again be in play, the whistle will 
have sounded. He is careful not to get too 
much in front of his opponent, for that may 
drive him inwards, and then, even if he is 
brought down, he may be able to transfer 
the ball into the willing hands of one of the 
Reds following up. 

Except for the tramping of the feet of the 
spectators running behind the ropes up to the 
critical spot, there is now a hush over the field. 
On races the three-quarter, ball under arm — 
in the old style — head up and mouth open, 
with a somewhat stupid expression on his 
face, like that of a startled moose. He 
observes the calculated approach of his adver- 
sary, and, knowing his own limitations, 
appreciates his danger. Nevertheless, he is 
all the time edging more and more towards 
the boundary, as the other desires. Even 
travelling at his top speed, as he is, he will 
not be able to get round the back, and cannot 
swerve or turn at that pace. With an anxious 
expression he glances over his shoulder, to see 
if any backer-up is close enough for him to 
pass. This checks him. 

It is full back's chance. Quickening his 
stride, he launches himself in a running dive 
at the knees of the big fellow. With a thud 
the two locked players shoot over the line 
and slide for yards on the sodden turf, scoring 
it with a dozen parallel grooves. The ball 
is hurled far beyond the ropes. 

There is no need for the flag of the touch- 
judge. Above the frantic cheers of the 
Whites shrills out the long blast of the whistle 
for " No side." The match is won. 


Time has passed. The scene is again laid 
in a field. But the game being carried on is 
more serious than football, and there are no 
crowds of cheering spectators. 




Down one side of the flat meadow runs a 
country road between a double row of poplars. 
The three other sides are bare of trees, and 
the hedge and fencing along them have been 
knocked down and lie on the ground. Along- 
side the road is a line of large marquees of a 
special and curious shape, pitched broadside 
to the field. They do not look old ; but they 
are extraordinarily dirty and creased, and 
have the appearance of having travelled much 
and of having been packed up and pitched 
again and again. At one end of them, in the 
usual regular lines, is a camp of living tents, 
and beyond this, in orderly disorder , stands 
a medley of vehicles of all shapes and sizes. 
Here are motor lorries , cars, and bicycles, and 
several uncouth trollies long enough to carry 
stage scenery ; on one of the lorries hums a 

by LiOOgle 

dynamo. In the background lurk two 
draggled motor-omnibuses, with no glass in 
their windows and their original garish 
colouring showing in patches -through a 
hastily-applied coat of drab paint. In front 
of the marquees, more or less dismantled, and 
in every stage of the process of being repaired 
or u tuned up " sprawl some six or seven 
aeroplanes, the monoplanes looking like 
monstrous, winged minnows. They are set 
in the midst of a litter torn posed of planks, 
tarpaulins, strips of fabric, cans of " dope " 
and of varnish, drums of paint, kegs of nuts, 
coils of wire, members of framework, shining 
new propellers, parts of engines, and all the 
thou sand -and- one articles which go to make 
up the equipment and debris of a military 
aviation depot in full operation. This portion 




of the field is a scene of feverish activity. 
Men are busy everywhere, some clustered 
round the aeroplanes, others working at the 
benches fitted with electrically-driven tools 
spaced between them. The aeroplanes them- 
selves seem to be chafing at their confinement 
and enforced idleness, and every now and 
again one apparently tries to burst away. 
After a sharp struggle men fall back hastily 
from the head of a monster, whilst others hold 
it down by wings and tail. The creature 
snorts, gives a hoarse roar, and trembles ; its 
propeller melts into a shimmering blur ; and 
a jet of blue smoke and steam is ejected back- 
wards, flattening the quivering grass for 
yards. But all these exhibitions of temper 
are in vain. The giants are in every case too 
well secured to escape, and after much fuss 
are again reduced to quiescence. That the 
torture of the captives does not cease even at 
night is shown by the number of lamps fitted 
with large metal reflectors, which are slung 
from rough posts all round the benches. 

In three of the corners of the field, also, 
like baby howitzers at extreme elevation, the 
projectors of small search-lights gaze sky- 
wards, and in the fourth stands a tapering 
steel mast in the centre of a wire spider's web 
of some hundred yards diameter. It is the 
"aerial" of the field station of the wireless. ■ 
Pegged out on the grass in the centre in yard- 
broad strips of freshly-whitewashed canvas is 
a large equilateral triangle. This cabalistic 
sign is intended to convey to those in the air 
the same information as the flag now hanging ' 
limp from its staff over the end marquee is 
meant to convey to those on earth : that here 
is the aeroplane park attached to general 
headquarters of the defending army, and the 
landing-place for airmen. 

From north-east to north-west comes the 
distant noise of battle, and the palpitating 
air quivers every now and again to the con- 
cussion of big guns firing in the distance. But 
no one in the field is disturbed by the sound, 
and the work goes on without interruption. 

At the open flap of one of the living tents 
stands a young officer. Except for the 
helmet and goggles, which he is carrying in 
his hand, he is fully dressed for flight, and as 
he stands, arms akimbo, listening to someone 
in the tent, he taps the ground thoughtfully 
with one foot. He is the " observing officer 
next for duty," or, in ordinary language, the 
officer whose turn it is to make a recon- 
naissance flight. Lying on his bed inside the 
tent is the airman who has just returned from a 
long reconnaissance. He has made a successful 
trip, and has reported to the Commander-in- 


Chief, and should be resting. But it is a 
special occasion. He is elated almost to the 
extent of garrulity, for he has ascertained 
that the invading enemy is still ignorant of 
the great move to the south-west which the 
defending commander has attempted to carry 
out during an inexplicable cessation of the 
invaders' air-service. 

" It really is touch and go. If they don't 
spot this flank move of our Sixth and Seveath 
Corps before dark, they're done ! And 
they've only got half an hour to do it in. 
The artillery of the Third Corps has just been 
ordered to follow up all night and co-operate 
in the morning, so that, in any case, surprise 
or no surprise, the attack will be an awkward 
one to stop. I wonder what can have hap- 
pened ? Not one of their machines in the air 
since yesterday afternoon. Can't make it 
out, unless they've had a fire in their main 
park, or some kind friend of ours has sought 
death by running amok amongst their 
machines with a sledge-hammer ! " 

Since everyone else has been wondering the 
same thing for the past twenty-four hours 
this talk is neither interesting nor profitable, 
and the man outside the tent shows signs of 
moving on. The speaker then comes to the 
point : — 

" I was able to examine all their dispositions 
at my ease, just as if it had been an inspection, 
and saw practically everything, in spite of all 
their wood-haunting, hedge-sneaking, canvas- 
screening dodges. If I was puzzled by any- 
thing looked at from one side, I just went 
back and looked at it from the other side — 
from every side. The brutes haven't the 
vaguest idea of what's coming to 'em." The 
speaker likes this expression, and pauses to 
chuckle over it. He continues : " Never saw 
the Chief in such a state. He couldn't hide 
it. His feelings were a bit mixed, though. 
Quite pleased that his great coup was suc- 
cessful so far, but wondering if our run 
of luck would last out till dark. Like a 
man swimming with a shark after him — 
cheered after each stroke to find that he is 
still able to kick, but worrying how long his 
legs will be hanging to his body. Kept 
looking at his watch, then the sky, then the 

There is another short pause before the 
speaker runs on : " Not that I wonder. Not a 
bit. If they do find out before dark, not only 
will they be able to upset our game, but 
they'll know where our general reserve has 
gone, and will press their attack on our right. 
Then we shall be in Queer Street ! There's 
the deuce of a fight going on there now." 



The other speaks forihe first time, thought- 
fully, monosyllabically, as if to himself: 
" They— must— not— find— out." 

" Yes ; that's all very well ; but — by the 
way, are you taking up Number Twenty- 
seven again ? " 

" Yes/' 

" You know that the beastly gun won't work 
— at least, it wouldn't when I came back — nor 
the wireless — I found one of the generator 
brushes gone, and we've no spares left." 

" Yes, I know." 

" None of the other 'planes ready yet ? " 

" No." 

" Awkward if they do manage to scratch up 
some machine at the last moment, and it 
blunders on to our secret ! Going alone ? " 

To this remark and question the next-for- 
duty makes no answer. There is the glow of 
exaltation on his^face, and his eyes are 
directed towards a wooded hill not far off, 
now all lit up in. the slanting rays of the 
sun, which has peeped out for a minute. 
But he is not thinking of the beautiful 
colour effect produced by golden light on 
tender green foliage. A call from the 
telephone orderly breaks his reverie. 

" There are my orders. Good-bye." He 
nods casually and walks off, taking a note- 
book from his pocket. 

" Good-bye. Good luck," comes back, in a 
serious tone, from the tent. 

He reaches the telephone. " Halloa — 

observer-next-for-duty here, sir. Yes, I'll 

book it." The speaker then listens and jots 
down notes alternately. Finally he says : 
" Yes, I'll repeat. ' Fifth Divisional Artillery 
at east edge of Square J 16 reports large 
biplane, carrying two, passed at 5.37 p.m., 

flying fast south-westerly course.' Yes, the 

direction is probably mere chance. What's 

that ? You'll arrange for interference from 

our wireless stations ? Oh, no, it won't 

worry us ; our wave is three hundred metres 
longer than their longest, and we shall be 
clear enough on loose coupling. But, anyhow, 
Twenty-seven's transmitting gear is out of 
order for this run. Must be stopped at all 
costs I I understand. Good-bye." 

There is a more sincere note than is usual 
in this conventional telephonic farewell, and 
the speaker twice misses the hook as he essays 
to hang up the receiver. For the moment he 
seems still to be cogitating some knotty point. 
However, it is soon settled, and it is" with a 
quick, firm step that he moves off towards 
monoplane Number Twenty-seven, lying 
apart from the other machines, facing the 
open field* It is " The Last of the Mohicans," 

by L^OOgle 

the only aeroplane at present capable of flight, 
but a swift one. On the way he is met by 
the officer in charge of the refitting, a subaltern 
who has one arm in a sling and a shade over 
one eye — the one wounded officer or man in 
the Air Corps, the duties of which are not 
responsible for many wounded. As was said 
by some cynical member, who has since found 
out the truth of his own epigram, its motto 
ought to be " Neck or nothing." 

" Off ? " 


" The machine-gun isn't quite ready, nor 
is the wireless. We may have the gun going 
in about a quarter of an hour ; but the 
wireless can't be rigged up for some time." 
. " Can't wait." 

The commandant of the Air Corps, who is 
also present, now has a short talk in an under- 
tone with the departing airman. His last 
words are spoken high : " We shall be able 
to carry on. Number Nineteen will be ready 
in an hour, Number Ten in three hours, and 
Number Thirty before morning." 

He then goes back to his work. There are 
no such things as " send-offs " in military 
aviation on service, nor is it the custom for 
the morituri, as such, to salute anybody. 

The observer-next-for-duty turns to the 
pilot sitting waiting on the monoplane. 

" Bomb magazine charged ? " It is dis- 
tinctly a question designed to mislead. 

" Yes, sir." 

" Right. I am taking this trip alone. You 
can come down and stand by for the next." 

This amounts to an order, and there is no 
room for any argument ; but the desire to 
travel alone betrays the airman's intention 
and the question about the bomb magazine 
no longer deceives. He takes the pilot's 
place. His first act is to study the map 
while the machine is steady, to see how far 
in a direct line the east edge of Square J 16 
is from the situation of the force whose 
movement it is so necessary to keep secret. 
But he does not at the moment waste any 
time in calculations which he will shortly be 
able to make at his leisure. Seizing the 
control, he tests the elevating and warping 
gear and tries the steering with his feet. 
Then, after a last look round, he puts on his 
helmet and gloves, pulls down his unglazed 
goggles, and nods to the man at the propeller. 
The latter gives two preparatory swings, a 
big heave, and shouts " On." The airman 
repeats " On " as he throws open the throttle. 
The engine " bites " and starts at full speed, 
and the whole machine trembles and quivers 
like an excitable horse at a covert-side. 




Throttling down to half-speed and then 
opening again to full, the airman watches the 
needle of the counter dial mount quickly 
up to eleven hundred and fifty revolutions 
and hover there. He also listens attentively 
to the purring of the engine, which is now 
pulling fiercely against the men holding the 
machine back. Satisfied with the " grain " of 
its rhythmic roar, he grips the control firmly, 
gets a fresh purchase on the steering-bar 
with his feet, and waves his right arm. The 
men let go. The machine runs forward 
with quickly-increasing speed, dancing along 
until it leaves the ground and its motion 
steadies into that of flight. 

Once clear of the ground the airman begins 
a spiral climb, turning to the left in a volute 
of large radius. An expert flyer, he soon 
feels the mouth of his mount, which he has 
not recently flown, and his touch on the 
control becomes as light as that of a good 
jockey on the mouth of a horse. He keeps 
the ascending and turning monoplane up to 
the bit without allowing it to lose speed, and 
occasionally counteracts its tendency to bank 
excessively by a flutter of the warp ; but 
his movements are barely perceptible. As 
the machine swings round gracefully the sun 
again appears for a moment from between 
the clouds, and its rays, shining through 
the semi-transparent fabric of the planes, 
transform the monoplane into the likeness of 
a gigantic hawk-moth with gauzy wings of 
golden brown, the large black bull's-eyes and 
the numbers on the underside of the planes 
accentuating the resemblance. 

Since the airman's attention is not dis- 
tracted by the act of flying, which is entirely 
instinctive, he is able to concentrate 
his mind upon his tactics. The clouds are 
high, thank God ! Before doing anything 
in the way of scouting he intends to take an 
unusual course — to climb at once to a height 
of five thousand feet, so as to obtain an 
extensive range of vision, and also to be 
high enough to gain that command of altitude 
which in action in the air is as necessary 
as the weather-gauge was in a sea fight in the 
olden days. To reach that height will take 
nearly ten minutes. A brief mental calcula- 
tion based on times, distances, directions, 
and the estimated speed of the enemy shows 
him that if the hostile biplane by chance or 
by design continues its course far enough to 
the south-west, he cannot prevent its dis- 
covering the presence of the Sixth and Seventh 
Army Corps out in that direction. But he 
may be able to intercept it on its return 
journey, and so prevent it getting away with 

Digitized by GoOQie 

the information, which, after all, is the essen- 
tial thing. It is true that by laying his course 
to head off the biplane in that one direction 
he may, if it reconnoitres elsewhere, miss it 
altogether ; but so long as the great flanking 
movement is undiscovered, or is discovered 
and remains unreported, nothing else matters 
— nothing ! And if he meets the hostile 
scout, he intends to take no chances by relying 
on such refinements as bomb-dropping. He 
will not even attempt the finesse of giving 
him the wash from his propeller. He will 
make a certainty of it, go the " whole hog/' 
and ram. It is this that explains his 
indifference to the absence of a machine- 
gun and his resolve to pilot himself. 

Maintaining his angle of ascent by touch on 
the control, he continues to climb steadily 
and steeply, thanks to being over-powered 
and the absence of a pai^enger and of the 
unshipped wireless gear. Nor is there need 
to look at the speed-indicator dial. In the 
absence of wind the sweet drone of the engine, 
now purring like the low note of a circular 
saw, is a sufficient guarantee of speed. 

At last the pencil of the barograph, which 
has been tracing a nice, smooth slope without 
" sa x teeth," crosses the five-thousand-foot 
line. Swinging round till the bearing of his 
course is due west, he readjusts his goggles 
and heads horizontally in the direction of the 
setting sun. The needle of the indicator 
jumps to ninety miles an hour. 

So far he has one advantage, in his direction 
of approach. There is no sun to dazzle him, 
whereas, if the biplane takes its expected 
course somewhat earlier than he estimates, it 
will be silhouetted against the western sky, 
which, though overcast, is marbled with 
glowing spaces between the clouds. As he 
flies, his eyes continually search the horizon 
from west to south. He descries no speck, 
no blur, not even a bird. After a glance 
below and one at his map he throttles down 
and turns south. He has travelled but a 
short distance on this course when he makes 
out, away to the south, just off the direction 
of the marching Sixth and Seventh Corps, at 
about three miles distance, and somewhat 
below his own level, a faint smudge circling 
in the air — a smudge with a suggestion of 
light on it. He throws open the throttle and 
elevates, and with a growl his machine leaps 
upwards on a ten-degree slant. Discovery 
must be mutual and simultaneous, for the 
smudge at once turns and flees south, still 
climbing. For about a minute there is a 
stern chase. 

It has not been entirely by accident that 
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by Google 

Original from 



the invaders' scouting biplane has so quickly 
discovered the secret of the defenders. The 
first machine to be repaired after the disastrous 
conflagration in their main aviation park, it 
has been sent out with the express purpose of 
discovering what the defenders have been 
doing behind their front line during their 

temporary freedom from espionage in the air. 
And it is of the south-western portion of the 
battle area that least is known. The invaders' 
observer, also, has been made suspicious that 
he is getting M warm n by the fact that, for the 
last twenty iiiiiiu tes, after each wireless message 
to tin: groimc }tat;tan with which he is working, 


he has received the despairing letters— west, and hit upon the great concentration 

" J- E, S,"— " Jammed by enemy's station/' behind the enemy's left and opposite their 

instead of the welcome " S. R." — " Signals own weak right. And the observer does not 

read," Consequently it is not altogether a waste time in a meticulous investigation of 

surprise for the two men on the biplane when numbers. Valuable as details generally are, 

they discover long columns veiled by dust on it is in this rase of absolutely vital importance 

one, two, three, four parallel roads leading that the bare intelligence! of the presence of 




this large force should be conveyed to head- 
quarters at once. He realizes one thing most 
clearly: that the secret that has been dis- 
covered is of such significance that the 
defenders will stop short of nothing to prevent 
him getting away with it. 

He continues his efforts to get into touch 
with one of his own wireless stations to impart 
the news, though he has few hopes of success, 
and tries sending in turn on the three tunes 
with which his set is fitted. But the defen- 
ders' installations are evidently still busy 
interfering, and " J. E. S." is still all that 
he can get. The choice of the method of escape 
he leaves to the pilot, who better knows his 
own powers and limitations and those of his 
machine. As has been seen, the latter at 
first tries to get away by climbing, with the 
intention of getting above the cloud layer and 
then steering north-east. Then, on being 
discovered, he turns away from his destina- 
tion, hoping that if the speeds of the two 
machines are not very unequal he may avoid 
an encounter till nightfall, and then run for 
his own lines under cover of darkness. It is 
not long before he discovers that the mono- 
plane has the " wings of him," and must 
overhaul him before dark. He realizes .that 
his pursuer will endeavour to ram ; that in 
such a case his only course is to dodge ; and 
that his best chance of dodging successfully 
is to do it when meeting I he enemy, when the 
speed of approach of the two machines will 
be so great that a swerve will be most difficult 
to follow. Since he cannot climb above the 
monoplane, also, he decides to go as far below 
it as possible, so that any attempt to ram will 
probably end in a dive from which there will 
be no recovery in case of a miss. 

Acting on this principle he turns and makes 
directly for his pursuer at a descending angle. 

Full back — for it is he who is the pursuer — 
instantly flicks down his elevator, and the 
monoplane, engine at full speed, roars down 
an invisible slope in the air at a speed of one 
hundred and twenty miles an hour. He sees 
the object of the enemy's manoeuvre, admires 
its cleverness and audacity, and smiles grimly. 
At the approach of the supreme moment the 
lust of battle seizes him and adds to the 
exaltation produced by speed and patriotism. 
It is his old game. Subconsciously he sees 
before him a foggy field and feels the hush 
that comes over it. Though the touch-line — 
the final touch-line — is some thousands of feet 
away this time, it can be reached very 
quickly ; and his opponent, unless he has 
passed on his news already, by wireless, has 
no one to pass to, for he cannot drop his 
Digitized by GOOgle 

message in its weighted carrier until he gets 
over his own lines, which are far distant. 
As he leans forward in a tense attitude, a 
loose end of his scarf streams out rigid behind, 
like the hair of a Valkyrie. His moustache 
is blown to either side of his mouth, flattened 
against his cheeks, forced up his nostrils. 
His bared lips are set in a line, 

The monoplane, descending in a curve 
which grows steeper and steeper as its 
target approaches, hisses through the air like 
a meteorite. 

The two machines, now half a mile apart, 
are approaching at a rate of over three miles a 

On the biplane the observer has left the 
transmitter and crouches behind the ready- 
belted machine-gun. Though there will only 
be time for very few rounds, even at the 
maximum rate of fire, before the two machines 
must meet, he opens fire on the off-chance 
of making a disabling hit. 

The distance is now three hundred yards* 

Now ! Now ! With a jerk the pilot of the 
biplane suddenly elevates fiercely — madly for 
one who wishes to survive. As he presses the 
control lever back almost against his seat the 
machine shivers with the strain put upon 
it ; but the planes do not split, nor do the 
stays give way, and it slackens speed at once 
as it turns steeply upwards. That is enough. 
Forward goes the lever again, and the com- 
paratively sluggish machine, in spite of the 
long length of copper wire trailing behind it, 
leaps forward once more like a live thing, 
" jinking " at the very last moment as a 
boar at the spear's point. 

Full back almost feels the check — which he 
has been expecting — before he sees it and, 
as the other anticipates, responds by flatten- 
ing his angle of descent. But he does so 
only slightly, retaining something in hand, 
for he knows that the biplane must straighten 
or " stall " and drop. 

When he sees it again dart forward he throws 
his whole weight upon the control with a snarl. 

In a terrific vol piqui the monoplane 
dives downwards. Though its momentum 
in its former direction carries it onward in a 
curve, its path is not far from the vertical, 
and it descends with a crash upon its hapless 
prey. In flames and amidst a shower of 
detonations the mass of tangled wreckage 
drops spinning to earth. 

Three more of the salt of their respective 
nations are out of play. And though for the 
rest of the armies " No side " does not yet 
sound, and the great game goes on, full back 
has saved again, 



The Memoirs of tne 
Infanta Eulalia — sirter of 
the late Rinji of Spain 
and aunt of tne reigning 
Sovereign — will be found 
of unique interest* For 
the first time in history 
a Princess of the Royal 
Blood has told the story 
of her own lire, with all 
her thoughts and feelings * 
from her earliest days* The 
Memoirs are brilliantly 
written, and provide a 
most striking picture of 
Court life as seen from 
the inside. 

Illustrated with a series of Photographs of the Infanta 
taken at various times and in many countries. 


F our fortunes had carried us 
directly from Paris to stay 
with my brother in the palace 
of Madrid, perhaps I should 
have found myself still caged 
there. But freedom is only 
by comparison ; and, after 
my unhappiness in the Alcazar ; it seemed to 
me now as if my life had really been given 
wings, Our arrival was almost private ; the 
people in the streets, accustomed to the sight 
of Royalty, did not make a great to-do 
about us (for it is chiefly curiosity that draws 
crowds, I find, even to see kings !) 7 and the 
one thing that looked like a public decoration 
in our honour was the washing, which it is the 
custom in Madrid to hang from the street 


windows to dry, It was an embarrassing 
decoration, because the articles were, as one 
might say , very intimate. They made a joke 
for us. 

We arrived in high spirits at the Royal 
Palace, and I was glad to find it not only 
gorgeous, but most comfortable. It had been 
built by Charles HI.— as everything in Madri J 
seems to have been built — but my brother 
had had it modernized with those conveniences 
of heating and plumbing which our antique 
splendour had hitherto done without in Spain. 
He had allotted a whole wing to us three 
Infantas (my sister Pilar, my sister Paz, and 
I), and we each had our own maids and 
servants from Sevilla, so that we made quite a 
household. He had installed in another wing 
my sister the Infanta Isabel, whom I hardly 
knew, because she had not been with us in 
France during the revolution. She was to 
take our mother's place towards us. She 
had been married at sixteen to a Prince of 
Naples ; she had lived all her life among the 
forms and traditions of Royalty, and she was 
genuinely devoted to their maintenance- I 
should have been afraid for my new liberty 
if I had not foreseen that her direction over 
us would be tempered by my brother's indul- 
^L-nrr. 1 knew that he had as much impatience 
as I for what we called, jocularly, between 
ourselvesj the " singeries " (monkey tricks) 
of Royalty. And so I began, with great 
expectations, what proved to be the happiest 
period of my life. 

I was able to rise early, because my brother 
was always up at half-past seven, to ride in the 

Copyright in alt countries undef the Berne C&nvimiou. 




and genllemen-in-waiting, officers, and aides-de- 
camp; but, on account of the presence of ihe 
latter., conversation was always formal. It was 
different on the afternoon drives. Then we 
were alone, for he drove himself, and I sat 
beside him ; there were just the two 
servants on the rear seat, and no one to 
overhear us. Best of all were the visits I 
paid him in his apartments, where it was not 
considered necessary that I should be followed 
by a lady-in-waiting, since I was under the 
protection of the King. The guards only took 
me across the public gallery in the centre of 
the palace— a soldier on each side of me and 

Casa Catnpo for an hour, and I rode 
horseback with him— to my great 
joy. Then, at nine, we girls had 
our lessons while lie met his 
Ministers. Early rising is not 
a Spanish habit. My mother, £ 
w T hen she was Queen, had 
met her Ministers alter the 
theatre, at midnight, and 
worked with them mure 
in the night-time than 
during the day. And 
my brother's Ministers 
had protested against 
his nine o'clock Cabi- 
net meetings; but he 
had won them to it 
with the smiling and 
tactful determination that always got him 
his own way. 

At midday we lunched with him, the whole 
household together, a score at table , with ladies 

by Google 

an officer in front, because in this gallery 
some attempts had been made to kill my 
mother when she was Queen — and the ushers, 
who led me down the halls, left me when ] 




entered my brother's antechamber. He had 
collected a large library for his own use, 
and he made me free of it on condition that 
I should not tell anyone. At last I had 
books ! And more than I could read. 

What adventures I I was most eager for 
history and philosophy, because my mind 
had been denied access to facts, and I read 
all that I could find, indiscriminately. It was 
probably my brother who directed me to 
Kantj his own education having been chiefly 
German, in Vienna, But my personal 
favourite among the philosophers was Emer- 
son. I suppose it was his sturdy doctrine of 
self-reliance that appealed to me — his insisting 
that nothing is at last sacred but the integrity 
of one's own mind — and, although I have 
not read him for years, I still remember him 
with the glow of my pleasure in his words. 
For poetry I had no appetite, French poetry 
seemed to me very light, without ideas. And 
fiction, English fiction particularly, to which 
my sisters were devoted, interested me but 
little* I wanted things to be true. I could 
not read Balzac ; I do not know why. 

With Shakespeare I had 
an odd experience. 
We studied him 
with our 

governess to perfect our English, and of course 
I realised that his verse was beautiful ; but 
when his kings and queens spoke their lines 
they seemed to me to be playing parts that 
had been written to make fun of the claims 
of Royalty. My governess was indignant 
when I told her that. She said it was not 


true ; that the 
speeches \\ ere 
meant to be 
taken seriouslv. 
" But no ! " I 
would cry. 
" Don't you see? 
Shakespeare is 
making fun of 
us. He knew we 
were not so, but 
he could not tell 
it in those days. 
He is laughing 
at us. He knew 
it was absurd.* 1 
And when we 
read " Hamlet/' 
Pr»B*dfr»Kh her; "There! 
UNIVBHl&dEWU KM prince who 



talks foolishness. If he had respected Royalty 
as much as you say, he would not have written 
it. If you hive an idiot in your family, you 
do not let people see him. No ; he is laugh- 
ing at his pompous kings." And my gover- 
ness scolded in vain. I still feel the same 
about Shakespeare's Royalties. 

Outside of my books I began to be most 
interested to understand the conditions in 
Spain itself. Why had there been a revolu- 
tion ? And why had my brother been called 
to the throne ? I was told that my mother's 
rule had been too " clerical " — that the priests 
had had too much power — and that when the 
Republicans had failed to provide a stable 
Government my brother had been welcomed 
as a liberal King. But the story of the way 
in which he came to be proclaimed seemed to 
contradict this reasonable explanation. 

The ladies of the Court, it appeared, had 
merely given money to soldiers in the army 
to cry " Viva el Rey Alfonso I " when General 
Martinez Campos called out to them one 
morning, " Viva el Rey I" General Campos 
had then telegraphed my brother that the 
army had proclaimed him King. My brother 
admitted to me that he had received the 
telegram as an invitation to an adventure, 
and, being fond of adventures, he had accepted 
it. He rode into Madrid, a boy of seventeen, 
on a spirited horse, followed by the general 
and his officers. The horse, excited by the 
crowds, pranced and curveted ; the crowd 
cheered his riding, and the more they cheered 
the more he made the animal caper. Every- 
one admired him. He had — what is a valuable 
asset for a King — a very winning smile, and 
he smiled and rode his way into the hearts of 
the people. From the palace he announced to 
the Parliament that he had been proclaimed 
King, and the Parliament accepted him on 
behalf of the country. The only opposition 
came from the Carlist rebellion, led by Don 
Carlos, a rival claimant to the throne. My 
brother went at once to the war, and the 
rebellion was put down. General Campos 
and his family were rewarded with lands and 
titles, and my brother remained securely on 
the throne. • 

I thought it was a strange thing that a 
King could be made in Spain on the strength 
of a shout from a few soldiers ; but it was 
the only explanation that anyone could give 
me. When my mother had been dethroned, 
the Republicans had first chosen as King a 
Prince Amadeo of Savoy, son of Victor 
Emmanuel. But after a brief reign Amadeo 
resigned the crown and left the country. He 
told me himself that he had never found out 

why the throne had been offered to him, nor 
why his rule had been rejected. It was all a 
mystery to him. 

Similarly, I found that the way in which 
my mother herself had come to the succession 
was as peculiar as all the rest. When her 
father, Ferdinand VII. , was taken with his 
final illness, there was a Salic law in Spain 
by which his brother Carlos would be his heir 
and successor. But an old enmity existed 
between Don Carlos and my mother's aunt, 
the Infanta Luisa Carlota. She had said to 
him, " You'll never reign." And he had 
laughed at her. But when the King was 
plainly dying of paralysis, she put before him 
a paper that she had prepared, abolishing 
the Salic law ; and, placing a pen in his hand, 
she took hold of his fingers and began to sign 
his name to the decree. The Prime Minister, 
Calomarde, seeing what she was doing, put 
his hand over hers to stop her. She stopped 
long enough to strike him a blow on the head 
that dazed him. When he recovered himself 
the document had been signed and King 
Ferdinand was dead. Calomarde bowed 
gallantly and said to her, in the words of a 
Spanish proverb, " A fair hand can do no 
wrong." She replied, " No ; but it can strike, 
eh ? " And the law against the succession of a 
woman having been thus repealed, my mother 
came to the throne, an infant, under the 
regency of her mother, Queen Maria Crist ina, 
and protected by her aunt. Don Carlos made 
war upon her, but he was unsuccessful. 

This story my mother told me herself. I 
was puzzled to know why no one but Don 
Carlos had objected to such a manner of 
changing the succession. I got no explanation. 
Like the proclaiming of my brother and the 
summons to King Amadeo to rule, it was a 
mystery. Did it all mean, then, that no one 
but the Royal claimants cared who was King 
in Spain ? Was it that the apparent Govern- 
ment in Spain, as in most countries, was not 
the real Government, and that the actual 
rulers of the country did not worry about who 
was in power in Madrid, since the power was 
impotent ? 

I found in talking with my brother that he 
was very interested in his work and the 
problems of government — but puzzled to know 
how to do anything to help the people — and 
saddened by conditions that he could not 
improve. He used to say, " I do not under- 
stand this country yet, but I shall find a 
way to do something with it after I have 
reigned over it a little longer." He had no 
faith in the politicians, and when one party 
lost officeirftfld,;. aether came to authority, 





Vol. xj*tf.-a 


Original from 

by L^OOgle 




and I asked him if this would improve matters, 
he replied : " No. It makes no difference. 
They are the same dog with different collars." 

He was apparently very popular, and no 
one openly opposed him ; but one could see 
that much of the common show of loyalty 
was a pleasant make-believe, designed to 
flatter. Once when #e were visiting a town 
together, driving in a carriage with the mayor, 
the boys in the street kept screaming " Viva 
el Rey 1" so shrilly that my brother, who was 
trying to talk with the mayor, could not 
make himself heard. " It is too bad," he said 
to the mayor. " They scream so loudly that 
I cannot talk with you as I wish." The mayor 
replied, with simplicity, " Ah, your Majesty, 
if I had known that you would wish to talk 
with me, I would not have paid them so 
much." And thereafter, whenever I saw a 
people very enthusiastic in welcoming a King, 
I wondered how they were being paid. 

At another time my sisters and I were 
making an excursion in the mountains, and 
we were accompanied by a mayor who had 
provided us with the donkeys on which we 
rode. Whenever we came to a village, the 
children first, and then the older people, 
would come out and cheer us. And they 
cheered us by name. " See ! " the mayor 
would say. " See how popular you are ! 
They know you all." As there were four of 
us, and we had never been in the district 
before, we were astonished. And very much 
flattered ! And the mayor beamed. At 
every village it was the same. " Viva la 
Infanta Isabel ! Viva la Infanta Pilar I 
Viva la Infanta Paz I Viva la Infanta 
Eulalia I " — each as we came. And the 
mayor, delighted and smiling and bowing, 
kept repeating : " But see ! It is really 
wonderful ! You are all known. You are 
so popular ! " 

After a time I wished to try my sister 
Pilar's donkey, and I asked her to change with 
me. The mayor objected. No, no ; I must 
not do it. It would not be right. " What ? " 
I said. " Is it forbidden by Spanish etiquette 
that I ride my sisters donkey ? " And I 
insisted. Then the mayor, seeing that I was 
determined, explained, in angry confusion, 
that we could not change donkeys because 
our names had been clipped on their tails, 
so that the people might know who we were ! 
And at the next village I watched the boys 
come behind us and read our names on the 
donkeys' tails before they set up their 
shouting ! 

I thought it very clever — though such a 
joke on us — and I soon found that it was 

by LiOOgle 

typically Spanish. They were very ingenious 
at playing such little tricks of deception. 
One of the oddest happened when we were 
making an official visit to another town, 
and driving again with another mayor. As 
we proceeded slowly through a crowded street, 
suddenly a boy ran into the roadway and 
dived between the wheels of our carriage. 
We were afraid that he would be killed, and 
we shouted to the driver, who pulled up his 
horses. The boy crawled out between the 
opposite wheels and ran away, but before we 
could start on again another boy did the 
same thing. This alarmed me so — with the 
fear of running over someone — that I wanted 
to stop altogether. How could one drive 
through a town where the children did such 
mad things ? I would not go. The mayor 
assured me that it would not occur again, 
but I refused to believe him. How did he 
know ? If these two boys would do it, why 
not others ? Finally, to calm me, he admitted 
that he had hired these two boys to throw 
themselves under our wheels. But why ? 
Because we were in front of his house, and his 
wife and family had wished to have a good 
look at us, and he had devised this charming 
plan to stop the carriage under their windows. 

With a people whose simpler citizens are 
capable of such subterfuges, you may believe 
it was not easy to discover the truth of what 
was going on in the intricacies of Government. 
The truth, as far as I was ever able to discover 
it, was this. 

In Spain there was an elaborate system of 
what is called " bossism " in the United States 
of America. But in Spain it had been carried 
t<5 its final perfection. In every small com- 
munity there was some wealthy person who 
controlled the machinery of public adminis- 
tration. He chose the persons who were to 
fill the elective offices, and the election 
returns were changed or manufactured to 
certify the election of his creatures. In 
office, then, these men obeyed his orders. 
Taxes were levied, the laws were administered, 
and justice was dealt out, as he directed, for 
the benefit and protection of himself and his 
friends. All the officials, ostensibly appointed 
or elected to represent the people and carry 
out the popular will, represented only the 
" cacique " (as he is called) and obeyed only 

Over the smaller caciques were bigger 
caciques, with more power and a larger 
following, just as, in the United States, over 
the boss of a city there is a State boss. But 
in Spain the people had become quite unable 
to free themselves, and there was an absolute 
k-n I Q I n d I TrOrn 








administration of the functions of Government 
for the benefit of the office-holders and the 
wealthy men who put them into office, 

A change of the party in power at Madrid 
made no difference. They were, as my 
brother said, M the same dog with different 
collars,' 1 They all obeyed the caciques. In 
filling their offices they desired chiefly to fill 
their packets with bribes and the sale of 
favours and the diverting of the public funds 
to their own use. The revenues of the country 
leaked away into their purses, and there was 
not enough left to pay the Government 
salaries. I have seen a letter from a Minister 
of the Government to a schoolmaster, telling 
him iL times were so hard !J that the State 

. - ., * 

could not pay his arrears of salary , but the 
Government would shut its eyes and the 
schoolmaster could make up his arrears him- 
self. Actually an official invitation to 
robbery I 1 have seen customs officials taking 

by C^ 



bribes instead of collecting 
duties. That was a notori- 
ous scandal. It was equally 
notorious that no influential 
person ever paid full taxes. 
Only the poor paid — the small 
farmer, the little man in busi- 
ness, anyone who was too weak in 
pocket to protect himself. As in 
America, all indirect taxes fell most 
heavily on those least able to bear them. 
The rents, the cost of living, the necessities 
of life were high ; wages were low. No poor 
person ever dared to go to law. There is 
a Spanish proverb that u Lent anrl prisons 
are made for the poor." Money ruled 3 and 
ruled everything. 

Original from 




Along with this rule of money went a rule 
of the priests. Spain had been for centuries 
the outpost of Christianity in the war with 
Mohammedanism. In the age-long struggle 
against the Moors the Church became the 
symbol of national freedom to all Spaniards ; 
their faith and their freedom were both 
threatened j and they fought for both together. 
The wars for the possession of America kept 
the same aspect of religious wars, because 
they were waged against a Frotes- 
tant nation ; and down almost to 
modern times the Government and 
the Church were such partners in 
being that it was impossible they 
should separate. 

Now, with peace and commercial 
development, the problems of 
Government had become wholly 
political j and the priests were as 
busy in politics as the caciques 
were. The State not only main- 
tained all the churches and build- 
ings' of the religious orders, but 
paid salaries to the priests and the 
monks and the nuns, They were 
all, in this respect, officials of the 
administration, drawing money 
from the public revenues, so that 
they conspicuously benefited by 

the plundering of the people. Therefore, 
whenever discontent with the Government 
gathered head in rebellion, it was inevitably 
an " anti-clerical " revolt, even though it had 
no concern whatever with religion. That was 

i by Google 

not onlv very unfortunate 
for the State, since it made 
reformation difficult by 
making it seem anti-religi- 
ous ; it. was also very unfor~ 
tunate for the Church, since 
it directed popular dissatisfac- 
tion against the priests instead 
of against the misgovern merit. 
So the people of Spain, although 
they were almost as fret: to vote at 
elections as the people are in the 

United .States., had really no voice 
Original from 




at all in their own government. When they 
revolted they made a useless " anti-clerical " 
revolt that took them nowhere, because they 
got involved in a quarrel about religion and 
the burning of churches. When a Republic 
was declared, with the aid of the army — 
which was Republican because the aristocracy 
did not even serve as officers — the system of 
misgovernment continued under a new name. 
It made no difference to the caciques whether 
there waj a King or a Republic ; ihey ruled. 
If the army proclaimed my brother King, 
the Parliament, for the caciques, accepted 
him in the name of the people. It did not 
matter ; he was powerless, simply because he 
could only act through the officials of the 
State who were largely responsible for the 
conditions. I think the caciques would 
rather have a King than a Republic, because 
the throne could be made a scapegoat in case 
of revolt. And, though jealous of the in- 
fluence of the priests with the people, they 
were always in partnership with that influence 
to protect themselves, 

I write this explanation here as if it were 
something that I and my brother and every- 
body else understood. As a matter of fact, 
we none of us understood it. How should 
we ? We were strangers to the country. 
There was a Chinese wall around us, to keep 
us from learning anything that the adminis- 
tration did not wish us to know. My brother 
was very young — at this time only nineteen. 
(It is significant how the Government of 
Spain prefers young Sovereigns.) And the 
poor people of Spain, who might have told 
us if they had not been dumb, did not even 
know themselves what was wrong any more 
than the people of the United States did a 
few years ago. 

My brother worked very hard, trying to 
oversee those departments of the Government 
that were most easily watched, such as the 
army and the navy. He did not trust to 
official reports, but went himself to see if 
the reports were accurate. It was on such 
visits that we had our adventures with the 
mayors. Once when we were out driving, he 
said : " Let us go to the French hospital. 
I must inspect it. We will go without 
warning, so that they will not be able to 
prepare appearances for me." So we drove 
to the hospital, and when we entered and it 
was seen that the King had arrived a man 
who had been paralyzed for years was so 
startled that he got to his feet and walked. 
A miracle ! And I thought if it had happened a 
few centuries earlier it might have made my 

brother a saint. Who knows ? I might have 
had a little shrine myself. 

He gave audiences every afternoon to 
whatever persons wished to see him, whether 
to present petitions, or merely to pay their 
respects, or what not. And his patience with 
everybody amazed me. It was impossible, I 
found, to learn anything from those who came. 
They were usually too oppressed by the 
formalities to be natural. One day, when I 
was assisting an older sister at an audience 
to ladies of Madrid, one lady was so embar- 
rassed that when my sister invited her to 
sit down — in the rather brusque voice that 
was her characteristic utterance — the lady 
sat down on a chair in which a kitten was 
lying. I supposed, at first, that the kitten 
had escaped, but I soon saw the lady growing 
red in the face and shifting in her chair, as 
if she were painfully uncomfortable. My sister 
tried to put her at her ease by asking her the 
conventional questions about herself, and I 
struggled to control my amusement, but with- 
out succeeding well enough to trust myself to 
interfere. At last my sister dismissed the 
lady, and turned on me to demand what was 
the matter with me that I should be grinning 
and choking instead of behaving myself with 
dignity. I cried : " But your kitten — your 
kitten ! " And then I saw that my laughter 
had been very cruel, for the kitten was dead. 
The lady had accepted the invitation to sit 
down as a Royal order, and had not dared 
to get up off the cat till she was dismissed, 
although the poor thing was struggling and 
fighting under her for its life. 

Naturally it was difficult to get any informa- 
tion from people under such conditions. Not 
that I wish to represent myself as going about 
with the air of a determined student eager 
to know. I had only a desultory curiosity 
that was continually stirred by finding some 
new puzzle of false appearance. My brother's 
problems of government were usually laid 
aside with us. We shared his recreation rather 
than his work. And, being human, I was 
much more interested in myself, my own 
problems of life, and the outlook of my future 
than I was in anything else. Being a Royal 
person in Spain was, in some of its aspects, 
rather a lark, but in others it was serious. 
For, however free I might be in my mind, to 
be amused, to be curious, to be cynical, there 
was no disguising the fact that I was limited 
in my friends, controlled in my affections, 
and of liberty in love and marriage wholly 
deprived. My mind might be what I pleased 
— my body was Royal. 

{To be continued.) 

by Google 

Original from 

Tne Fourtn M 


Illustrated by AiVarwick Reynolds. 


CAB swung down the chief 
street of Silchester, gave a 
little tuff-tuff of warning, and 
turned in at the gateway of 
the Grand Northern Hotel. 
It crossed the courtyard, 
picked a vacant ten feet in 
the long file of vehicles, and pulled up beside 
the kerb. Almost before it stopped, its 
occupant had the door open ; he handed his 
suit-case to a waiting minion, fee'd the driver, 
and followed the minion through the revolv- 
ing glass-paned entrance into the hotel. 
The hall -porter, magnificent in braid and 
buttons, saluted, and came to his side. 

" Have you booked a room, sir ? " he asked, 
with a faint inclination of the head. 

" Yes. I wrote from Lancaster yesterday. 
I suppose it's all right ? " 

" Yes, sir." The hall - porter turned to 
another underling. " Jackson, take this 
gentleman's bag. We've been very full till 
to-day — but a lot of gentlemen have left us ; 
they always do towards the end of the week. 
That window, sir — over there ! " 

The gorgeous employi, swift to judge men 
and their callings, gave a shrewd glance at 
his interlocutor ; then turned away quickly 
to greet another incomer by the great 
revolving door. The visitor walked to the 
office- window and leaned over the ledge. 

" I wrote for a room yesterday," he said. 
" Cunningham is the name ! " 

" Yes, sir." The clerk consulted a 
ledger. " Number three-eight-three. Here 
is the key, sir. Will you kindly write your 
name in the book ? " 

" Thank you." 

The visitor took the key in his left hand ; 
with his right he assumed a pen. He wrote 
his name in the register in a stiff and legal 
hand : — 

" Charles Cunningham ; Grantford, Yorks." 

He blotted it deliberately ; as deliberately, 
with the aid of a forefinger, he looked at the 
names above. He saw this name, within two 
or three of his own : — 

" G. A. Flnlay ; Leicester." 

by Google 

He looked farther ; he turned vainly, page 
upon rustling page. He put down the pen on 
its little bracket and glanced at the man with 
his bag. 

" Where is the lounge ? " he asked. 

" Through there, sir " — the man pointed 
forward — " up those steps and turn to the 
right ! " 

" Thank you. I think, though, that I will 
go to my room." 

Cunningham washed, and began to change. 
In ten minutes he was in his dinner-jacket. 
The dark clothes and black tie became his 
slight, fair figure, with its long and thin-lipped 
face. He walked out of the room and, dis- 
daining the lift, walked down the easy-falling 
stairs. He carried himself well ; but he 
stooped a little. His eyes were strained, and 
seemed as if they needed glasses ; his com- 
plexion was youthful ; but he was beginning 
to lose his hair. He looked like a man who 
lived cleanly, but who was either driven or 
voluntarily worked too hard. 

He reached the hall, went up a short stair- 
case, and turned to the right. Before him, 
through an arched and curtained opening, 
was the octagon lounge of the hotel. It was 
immensely comfortable rather than immensely 
gorgeous ; there were soft carpets ; there 
were Chesterfields and chintz-covered sofas ; 
there were large, inviting chairs. It was 
nearly full of people, and still filling. Cun- 
ningham wandered round. He was looking 
for someone whom he expected to find there. 

He found him. From the corner of a 
Chesterfield a man, stiffly built, with grey 
hair and a monk-like tonsure, hesitated and 
rose. Cunningham walked across and put 
out his hand. 

" Halloa, Finlay," he said. " I recognized 
you at once ! " 

" And I you — almost. You're hardly 
changed ! " 

" Aren't I ? Neither are you — although 
you're stouter and grey. We are changed, 
you know !. Why is it that we should seem 
the same?" 

" I don't know — I don't understand. I 
Original from 



suppose we see each other's characters rather 
than each other's faces — you remember how 
we found the masters at Malvern always the 
same age when we went back. Well, well ; 
it doesn't matter, I'm glad that we could 
meet. Shepard hasn't come yet. Suppose 
we sit down and wait ! " 

Finlay seated himself. Cunningham did 
the same* Finlay's right foot tap-tapped the 
floor involuntarily. Cunningham passed and 
repassed his hand across his lips. A silence 
enwrapped them, awkward, uncomfortable ; 
the result of unbridgable years. The need 
for action that should overcome nervous 
silence impelled Finlay to his feet. 

" Sherry and bitters ? " he asked. 

" Quite a good scheme. Shall I ring ? " 

"No; I will." 

Finlay went to a pillar and put a finger on 
a bell. He resumed his seat in silence. The 
waiter came, went, and returned. 

" How's the school, Finlay ? " said Cun- 
ningham, taking his glass in hand. 

" Very flourishing, thank you — that is, as 
flourishing as limited premises will allow. 
Cheer-oh, and to our next meeting ! How's 
the practice ? Going strong ? " 

" Pretty solid, thanks — and better than it 
ever was — but I wish I could buy a partner- 
ship in a bigger place. There's not much 
scope in a place like Grantford and — halloa, 
here is Shepard coming along now ! " 

Cunningham coughed ; Finlay made a 
gesture ; a man who had been searching 
among the company caught sight of them, 
and quickened his pace. He, too, wore a 
dinner-jacket, but he had a clerical collar, and 
he looked like a minor dignitary of the Church. 
He was clean-shaven ; his face was character- 
ful, ascetic, and good. 

" Well, you two," he said. " How are 
you? I'm glad we were able to come. A 
drink ? No, thank you ; I diet myself ; it 
helps me to get through my work ! A 
satisfactory rendezvous ! A wonderful hotel ! " 

" Wonderful ! " said Cunningham. 

" Eight hundred bedrooms ! " said Finlay. 

" And I hear the Americans say it's the 
finest in the world ! " 

Shepard sat down, as he contributed this 
assertion ; and another silence followed, 
more awkward, more insupportable, in- that 
three people had to bear it instead of two. 
At last Finlay jumped up. 

" Suppose we go in," he said. " I don't see 
why we shouldn't dine ! " 

Finlay walked forward, going out of one 
of the entrances of the great lounge. The 
others followed ; all three crossed a passage, 

by L^OOgle 

came to the dining-room, and went in. It 
was an oblong room, decorated in Tudor 
fashion, panelled, carved, with two huge 
fireplaces, now screened with flowers, for the 
month was July. The head-waiter approached 
at once. The schoolmaster, as he had done in 
his school-days, unconsciously took the lead. 

" A table for four in the name of Finlay/' 
he said. 

The head- waiter bowed. He conducted 
them to a table with a chair tipped against it 
in a corner of the room. They sat down. 
The head-waiter looked at the vacant place. 

" Will you wait for the other gentleman ? " 
he asked. 

The three men glanced at each other. 
Finlay shook his head. 

"The other gentleman will not be here/* 
he answered. " You can serve the dinner at 
once ! " 

The head-waiter bowed again, and retreated; 
the table-waiter brought the soup ; the three 
men began to discuss the dishes, and to speak 
of trivial things. As they talked, so, almost 
furtively, they looked at each other, recog- 
nizing old characteristics, little tricks of 
gesture and intonation and tongue. They 
were very English ; they were deadly shy of 
the sentimental associations which had 
brought them together after so long a lapse 
of time. They had corresponded spasmodi- 
cally ; they had not seen each other for 
exactly twenty-one years ; they had held to 
pact and promise ; they had come to keep a 
long-ago-made tryst. But of their ancient 
friendship they said nothing. The talk 
turned into one common channel — that of 
cricket, which had been their game. 

" I see Oxford are doing well," said 
Shepard, presently. " A Malvern boy got 
eighty-odd. Caldicott, his name is. I wonder 
if he was in our house ? " 

" Don't know, I'm sure ! " said Finlay. 

" Nor I ! " Cunningham shook his head. 

" Don't either of you ever go down ? " 

" Not nowadays," answered Cunningham. 
" Finlay, what about you ? " 

" No, never. Don't suppose I shall till my 
boy is old enough to go ! " 

" Same here," took up Cunningham again. 
" But I sometimes write to old Smugey, all 
the same." 

Shepard looked up. 

" I'm glad," he said. " I seldom see him 
— but I shall never forget. He didn't play 
games or anything — but he did more than any 
man to help his boys." 

Finlay nodded, vigorously. Cunningham's 
pale cheeks flushed. 

K-}r iQiridi rrorn 





" D'you remember the afternoons ? " he 
said. " How he used to come round and sit 
beside us all in turn for five or ten minutes, 
and make us feel that it mattered to him and 
us whether we got on or failed ? He was 
great, in his quiet manner ; he was more 

personal in his fashion, more " 

" More spiritual, Cunningham/' Shepard 
put in. 

" Yes ; more spiritual, without being 
priggish, than any master I know. I think 
he put aspiration into us — something that 
was in us, p'r'aps — but which he quickened in 
his kindly way ! " 

Shepard and Finlay nodded. Finlay spoke. 
" I suppose that at every school there's 
some such man as that. Environment pro- 
duces him ; he's a reaction against other, and 
by no means harmful, things." 

" Yes, Finlay," said Shepard. " Didn't 
Henley find Brown at Clifton ? — there are 
always such men at every school ! " 

There was a pause. Finlay began again. 
" He was a good judge, too," he said. " I 
think he could see what boys would be as 

" Often — generally — but not always," said 
Cunningham. " I remember he said that we 
should be well-to-do men of the professional 
classes, with incomes of between eight hundred 
and a thousand a year ; but that a certain 
lack of courage and our conventional outlook 
would never get us farther, and that Gilmour 
would do better than us all. Perhaps he was 
right enough about us three — but he made a 
bad blunder in putting poor old Gillie so 
high ! " 

It was the first time that the absent man's 
name had been mentioned. All three men 
looked at the vacant place. 

" I suppose there's no news of him ? " said 
Cunningham, presently. 

" None," answered Finlay. " I haven't 
heard of him since his father had those trust 
funds, and poor old Gillie, who had nothing 
to do with it, got struck off the rolls. That 
was just after he qualified ; he was married 
the same year. What about you, padre? 
Have you heard anything at all ? " 

" Yes," answered Shepard. " I have had 
news of him since that." 
" Recently ? " 

" No — only Masson, of the school-house — 
the gunner fellow — ran across him in Jo'burg." 
" When ? " 

" Ten or eleven years ago." 
" Just after the war ! " 
" What was he doing ? " 
" Holding horses' heads." 

" Good heavens ! " said Cunningham, with 
a shudder. " What a fall for a man of pride ! 
And, I suppose, he's right down in the gutter, 
past all redemption and Kelp." 

" If I could find him," said Shepard — 
" with all the claims upon me — I would try 
to set him on his legs ! " 

" And I ! " 

" And I ! " 

" But we sha'n't have to do it," said 
Shepard. " He won't be found — and he'd 
be too proud, if he were ! " 

" Yes, he was proud," said Finlay. " Per- 
haps that is why he has failed. It is strange 
how some men go out unexpectedly — and how 
others hold their own. I suppose we have 
succeeded ! Cunningham, are you a success ? " 

Cunningham shrugged his shoulders. A 
smile — a wry smile — hovered about his lips. 

" I suppose so," he answered. " But to me 
it seems poor enough. I have the biggest 
practice in my little town ; all the business 
worth having is in my hands. I can do no 
more. My ambitions are seeding. At forty- 
five I am finished with — and only my expenses 
grow. You know what it means — I live up 
to my income — and the women set the 
pace ! " 

" Yes," Finlay nodded. " The women set 
the pace, indeed ! My school pays splendidly 
— but the expenses are so heavy, and my wife 
likes the social side of things — and though I 
might treble my income, I cannot spare the 
money to expand ! " 

" Yes," said Shepard, and drummed his 
fingers on the table. " It is something like 
that with me. I could spare so much more 
to do good in my parish if it were not for my 
children and my wife. It seems a shame to 
give away money which ought to be theirs. 
It's this awful living up to appearances which 
makes us all so poor ! " 

" Appearances ! " echoed Cunningham, bit- 
terly. " That's just what it is ! " 

" Yes," agreed Finlay. " Appearances. 
Nothing but that. Appearances are the 
curse of us all ; they are the drags which keep 
us back. But — we have competency, comfort, 
and a certain social standing. I suppose the 
average man would call us men who have 
found success ! " 

He ceased. No one answered him. The 
talk turned to games-playing, which serves to 
drug men's thoughts. The sweet was served. 
Dessert came. Finlay filled Shepard's glass 
with champagne. 

" A drop won't hurt you, padre. Besides, 
we must drink a toast 1 " 

•' Gilmour ?3riq 




" Yes— as we promised at Brussels — the 
health of the dead — or missing. Have you 
got your little black cross ? Here's mine ! " 
Finlay took a polished bogwood thing from a 
waistcoat-pocket and set it beside his plate. 

" And mine," said Shepard," — he pointed 
at his watch-chain — " I've worn it ever 
since ! " 

" And mine ! " Cunningham unwrapped a 
piece of tissue-paper, and read from the back 
of the piece of wood it hid : " Kermesse, 
Bruxelles, eighteen-ninety-one ! " 

The three crosses lay on the table. Each 
man regarded the empty chair. The waiter, 
who had retired himself to a discreet distance, 
looked on, observant and unseen. 

" An absent friend ! " said Finlay. " Georgie 
Gilmour — alive or dead ! " 

" Georgie Gilmour ! " echoed Cunningham. 
Shepard's lips moved, silently ; his words 
could not be heard. The three men drank. 
Finlay, afraid and ashamed of being senti- 
mental, set down his glass with a bang. The 
base shivered, and a little piece broke away. 
His friends, looking at him, did not hear the 
waiter approach. 

" Gentlemen ! " 

" Yes — what's the matter ? " Cunningham 
turned round. 

" Have any of you gentlemen lost any- 
thing ? Because I picked this up beside 
your table just now ! " 

As he spoke, the waiter opened his fingers. 
Each of the three men gave a start. For in 
the palm lay a thing of black bogwood — a 
tiny polished cross. 

There was a full half-minute of silence. 
Then Shepard put out his hand. He took 
the cross and turned it over. He read these 
words aloud : — 

" Kermesse, Bruxelles, eighteen - ninety - 
one ! " 

Cunningham and Finlay were speechless. 
Only Shepard found voice. 

" Thank you, waiter," he said. " It does 
belong to us ! " 

The waiter bowed and turned away. 

" Waiter ! " 

" Sir ! " 

The man turned again. Finlay, who had 
called to him, looked the little man up and 
down. " All right," he said. " I thought 
I wanted something. I was wrong." 

Again the waiter bowed to them, again he 
went away. Finlay took the cross from 
Shepard, examined it — and passed it to 
Cunningham, without a word. Cunningham 
sat turning it over while Finlay watched him. 
Shepard broke silence at last. 

" It's Gilmour's cross ! " he said. 

" It must be ! " said Cunningham. 

" It is" said Shepard. " It is, without a 
doubt ! " 

" How did it get here ? " 

" He found it on the floor ! " 

" Yes, but " 

" I thought the waiter was Gilmour, for a 
minute," said Finlay, " but Gilmour is twice 
his height ! " 

" And Gilmour is fair," said Shepard. 
" What does it — what can it mean ? " 

" Gilmour is dead," said Cunningham, 
slowly. " But the cross came in some way 
we cannot know. The same force — the same 
unconscious sentiment — which drove us to 
meet again " 

" There must be some natural explanation !" 
interrupted Finlay. " Perhaps Gilmour is 
here ! " 

" Here ? " 

" Yes — in the flesh ! Look ! Is he in the 
room ? " 

The three men swung round in their chairs ; 
from their corner table they could survey the 
entire room. Pretty women were there ; 
young men ; superior commercials ; bloods 
about Silchester ; manufacturers, lawyers ; 
folk of every kind and rank. But Gilmour 
was not among them. Shepard made a banal 
misquotation, and turned back. 

" There are more things in heaven and 
earth than are dreamed of in our philosophy!" 
he said. 

Cunningham shivered. Finlay twisted and 
intertwisted his hands. Suddenly he put 
one of them on Shepard's arm. 

" Padre," he said. 


" Have you any prejudices against variety 
entertainments ? " 

" Not when they're clean ! " 

" They're clean enough here — the Watch 
Committee sees to that ! Suppose we go to 
the Palace. I feel as if I'd like to forget my 
thoughts ! " 

" And I ! " 

" And I ! " 

Finlay made a signal. The waiter hurried 

" The bill ! " 

" Yes, sir." 

The bill was ready ; the tip was given ; 
each went for hat and overcoat to his room. 
They met in the outer vestibule. Finlay 
pointed at the glass of the revolving doors. 

" It's raining," he said. " It's always 
raining in this beastly hole 1 We shall have 

j ? 

to take a cab i ' 






Finlay advanced* The others followed 
him. The hall-porter preceded them to the 
revolving door. But, when he reached it, he 
did not set it swinging ; he put his back to it 
and extended his hand. 

14 Halloa, Bunny," he said, smiling. " You 
see, I've kept my promise — I'm here ! " 

Finlay started, gasped, stayed speechless, 
and looked into the hall-porter's face. The 
man's features were as fine as his figure ; he 
had a fair moustache, beautiful teeth, and 
extraordinarily blue blue eyes. His voice 
was that of an educated Englishman ; he 
had nothing of the menial about him except 
his menial's clothes. Cunningham and 
Shepard stared at him as if he were a basilisk ; 
and Cunningham had hold of Shepard's 

11 Halloa, Ferret — halloa, Shepard — how are 
you, after all these years ? Sorry I couldn't 
come to the dinner. I was on duty — as you 
see ! " 

" Gilmour," said Finlay, breathlessly ; 
" Georgie, it's you ! " 

" Yes, it's me all right, but " 

" What are you doing here ? " 

" Doing here, Shepard ? " The hall-porter 
glanced at his uniform. " Doesn't this speak 
for itself ? " 

" How long have you been here ? " 

" Seven years ! " 

The three professional successes looked 
at each other; one thought — forced and 
quickened by the instinct of self-preservation 
— had jumped to life in the heart of each. 
Each, at that moment, remembered his 
assertion that he would help to set Gilmour 
on his feet again — and the hour of test was at 

" But — but we must talk to you," said 
Shepard, who had more claims on him, and 
more moral courage than Finlay and 
Cunningham. " How soon will you be 
free ? " 

" In five minutes — and it will take me ten 
to change. But are you sure that you care 
to know me?" The hall-porter's laugh was 
very merry. " You were such sticklers for 
social things ! " 

" Nonsense ! " Finlay, ashamed of his 
thoughts, spoke sharply. " You've no busi- 
ness to talk like that ! " 

" Then I'm glad I sent the cross. Go " 

Gilmour, once head of their house, assumed 
his old habit of direction. " Go across to the 
little Italian restaurant across the Square. 
It is quiet, and they know me — there is a 
table reserved for me — where I sup before I 
go home. I beg your pardon, sir " A 

Digitized by VjOOgJC 

client had come up to him. " Glasgow train 
— ten-f orly — sleeping-car on Saturday nights ? 
I think not, until August, but — Carter, give 
me that time-table; I'll have a look and 

He turned away eager and affair £; his 
three school-fellows, Finlay leading, passed 
through the revolving doors. In them that 
strange snobbishness, so often in the very 
veins of the professional classes, was runnihg 
riot ; fighting with a sense of old comrade- 
ship, with sentiment, with the public school 
instinct for playing the game for the side. 
In front of the hotel, outside its courtyard, 
Finlay stopped dead. 

" Good Lord ! " he said. " He has come 
down ! " 

" Yes," said Cunningham, He spoke in a 
half-whisper. " If it were the Colonies — but 
in England — at an English hotel ! " 

Shepard said nothing. He was aware of 
his own feelings — and he was very greatly 

So, in silence, the three men crossed the 
Square. Before them a little Italian restau- 
rant displayed its windows, full of empty 
Asti bottles and Chianti flasks. 

" Petrucchio, from," it said, in tiny 
letters over the door and on the windows. 
" Gatti's," it added, in letters that were very 

" This is the place," said Finlay ; " second- 
rate spot — very. But, of course, we must go 

They entered. On the left was a counter ; 
before them an oblong room, with a coarse, 
purple carpet, and little tables, and between 
the tables a narrow lane. 

" Looks clean, anyway," said Shepard. 
" No, waiter, we don't want dinner. We've 
come to meet a gentleman called Gilmour, 
who usually sups here, and " 

The waiter's demeanour altered. From 
mere politeness he half-fell over himself to 

" Will you, please, sit here, gentlemen," 
he said, eagerly — and he indicated a table 
with " Reserved " upon it, before which was 
a single chair. " I will bring more chairs at 
once ! " 

He brought them. The three men sat 

" A whisky and soda ! " said Cunningham. 
" Finlay, will you ? " 

" Rather ! " ( 

" And you, Shepard ? " 

" Some black coffee — very black ! " 

The waiter hurried to the counter. Finlay 
looked critically around. 





si A decent place — of its class," he said, 
" And they're attentive enough, too ! n 

u Yea, and I suppose the waiter 's a pal of 
Gilmour V said Cunningham. il He over- 
whelms us with polite attentions ; doesn't he, 
padre ? " 

Shepard did not answer* Cunningham 
spoke again. 

" What's up, padre ? n he asked. 

11 What's up I " echoed Finlay. " Well, I 
should say , Gilmour, It's about the biggest 
come-down I've ever heard of. That's what's 
worrying you, padre — what ? " 

Shepard noddftflnai from 

JSMsmrsfafa**- ,,And 



11 What's that ? ,J 

" He doesn't seem to mind. He 
has no sort of shame I " 

u I noticed that/* said Finlay, 
" Don't quite see what we can 
do ! " 

" Nor do I," said Cunningham , 
whose thoughts and Finlay*s were 
the same. 

" I know what we ought to 
do," said Shepard, looking up. 

" What's that ? " The unneces- 
sary question came from Cunning- 
ham and Finlay in a breath* 

" We ought to have a whip round 
and put him on his legs ! " 

" I suppose we ought/' said 
Finlay. I( Anyway, we must do 
something, Cunningham — what ? H 

" Yes, I'll do something/' said 
the solicitor, tl But 1 know my 
wife will grumble — not without 
reasonable cause. It's all this 
beastly need for keeping up appear- 
ances ! M 

" Yes, curse 'em ! " said Finlay, 
ruefully. " Appearances are the 
deuce ! 3J 

" They're Old Men of the Sea/' 
said Shepard. " But we must do 
what we can. We shall have to 
get Gillie a job somehow and pull 
him out of the mire. What are 
you good for, Cunningham — at a 
pinch ? " 

" Oh, put me down for fifty — if 
it's necessary/' said the solicitor, 
with a heavy sigh. " But I shall 
have to work it in as office ex- 
penses, somehow. I simply daren't 
tell my wife I " 

"Nor I," said Finlay. "Still, 
stick me down for the same.'' 

" And the poor in my parish will have to 
go without something/' said Shepard- (( I 
can't spare money in all directions ; and my 
second boy is going to Malvern this term," 

Cunningham and Finlay nodded. A heavy 
gloom enwrapped them all. Each was 
lamenting, blaming the ridiculous piece of 
sentiment which had led to their meeting ; 
which had placed them in this plight. Every 
now and then one of them looked apprehen- 
sively in the direction of the door. But it 
so happened that the eyes of all were on the 
table when the man for whom they waited 
came in. He walked up to them ; they did 
not hear him. He stood behind Finlay's 


"Well, Bunny/' he said, " how's life? » 

Finlay looked up. A most unreal gaiety 
was apparent in his voice. 

" Gillie, old man, we're jolly glad to see 
you— aren't we, you two ? " 

" Rather ! * said Shepard and Cunningham, 
without enthusiasm ; and they looked at the 
man who had failed. He was big, bu* in 
good condition ; he positively exuded vitality ; 
he smiled happily, naturally ; and he seemed 
an utter stranger to shame, 

'* You're all flourishing, I see/ 1 he said, 
gaily, as the waiter brought him steak and 
spinach and Munich beer. 

" What makes you think that ? " asked 





, *» 

11 Oh, you have the air of it. You look 
intensely professional and respectable — as I 
always knew you'd be. Go on talking. I 
must eat. I'm hungry. I always come in 
at eight-forty-five to sup." 

Gilmour began his supper. The others 
watched him ; they saw that his suit was a 
good one, that even under the heel of mis- 
fortune he had preserved his sense of clothes. 
They began to hope that things were not 
quite so bad with him as they had supposed, 
Shepard put out a feeler in response to 
Finlay 's glance, 

" Gillie ! " he began, 

« Yes, parson," 

** We're awfully sorry 1 *J 

" Sorry ! " Gilmour looked up 
with a piece of steak on his fork, 

* Yes " — Finlay jumped in now 
- — " and we'd like to help you if 
we can. We're not rich men, any 
of us — and we have very heavy 
expenses, but if we can get you 
a clerkship or a secretaryship — 
why, we will ! " 

M Yes/' said Cunningham, 
nervously. "We can't do every- 
thing — but we'll be only too glad 
to give you a hand." 

"That's awfully good of you." 
Gilmour smiled at them affection- 
ately. " But you needn't bother. 
I'm pretty satisfied with my 

" Satisfied ! " Shepard winced 
palpably, " But you've lost your 
sense of proportion, Gilmour. It 
isn't good enough for a man like 

u Good enough — when I've half 
starved and swept crossings and 
held horses' heads 1 I'm proud of 
it ! I don't want to change ! " 

w But you ought to want/' said 
Finlay, shockedly. £l You ought to 
try to succeed. You're only about 
fi ve - and - f or t y — and you might 
redeem yourself yet ! " 

Gilmour did not answer. But he 
smiled — more broadly than before, 
Cunningham, who wanted to know 
the worst and to have done with 
it, put a question in a roundabout 

" It isn't as if you'd got a 

lucrative job," he said. il If you 

had, I could understand your 

pocketing your pride, But, as it is, 

they can't pay you very much." 

" How much do they pay you, Gillie^ old 

man ? " said Finlay, the most direct of them 


" Five shillings a week." 
" What ! " 

The three men stared at him. Involun- 
tarily they shuddered ; involuntarily they 
thought of their fifty pounds. Gilmour went 
calmly on with his steak. 

" But I suppose " — Shepard hesitated ; 
the question was delicate indeed. " But I — 
er — I take it that the hall-porter comes in for 
his share of tips ? " 

" Oh, yes," Gilmour nodded. " There are 
eight hundred bed roomft(-^e hotel is always 
full to overflowing/" iriA'aBodi' 'two hundred 



people leave every day. Nobody gives me 
less than a shilling ; many give me half a 

" A shilling ! " 

" Half a crown ! " 

His old school-fellows leaned forward. 
Each was doing a sum. Finlay got the 
answer first. 

" An average of four hundred shillings — 
that's twenty pounds a day. Man alive, 
you're making seven thousand a year ! " 

" Ah, no, not so much as that ! " Gilmour's 
voice was deprecating. " You see, I have 
several assistants as well. But my clear 
personal takings in the worst year have never 
been less than three thousand pounds ! " 

There was a gasp from Shepard ; an oath 
from Finlay ; from Cunningham an hysterical 
laugh. The weight was gone from their 
bosoms, and Gilmour shot up in their sight. 
They looked at him with admiration and 
envy — and even with affection, too ! 

" Then you're richer than any of us ! " cried 
Finlay. " We none of us make half that — 
net ! " 

" Yes — I suppose I am very fortunate," 
said Gilmour, with a thankful sigh. 

" Fortunate ! " echoed Cunningham. " I 
should think you were fortunate. How did 
you get the post ? " 

" The manager knew me — in South Africa. 
I was barman at a Jo'burg hotel. We worked 
it up and he sold it ; and he came home — and 
got this." 

" And he asks no percentage ? " 

" Of course not. Why should he ? He 
knows I am worth what I make. He tells 
me that I have a personality which pleases 
people an* makes them feel at home as soon 
as they pass the door. I suppose he's right, 
too — or I shouldn't have so many friends. 
Some of them come to see me on Sundays, 
at Northport, where I have a little house." 

" And your wife is still alive ? " said 
Shepard, fighting for his breath. 

" Yes, thank God ! She stuck to me like 
a brick." 

" And she doesn't mind ? " 

"Mind! Why should she? She isn't 
that sort. You see, she's a niece of Lord 
Granston's and she hasn't any social am- 
bitions. She just is" 

" But your children — have you any ? " 

" Three— all boys." 

" And you're going to send them to 
universities ? " 

Gilmour gave a hearty laugh. 

" Not much ! I am going to send them 
into business — into which the best brains of 
England go. Just now they are at St. Peter's, 
York. When they leave they have each the 
promise of an opening with great firms whose 
directors know my story and who stay at the 
hotel. My boys will not acquire foolish 
ideas about keeping up appearances. What 
did you say ? " (At the word " appearances " 
an audible shudder had come from his hearers.) 
" And I think they will make a big success of 
life ! " 

Gilmour paused. The others looked at 
him without speaking. They had become 
aware that he had gained something — not 
merely concerned with money — which they 
had completely missed. 

" You said you lived at Northport," began 
Cunningham, presently. " But that is forty 
miles away ! Do you go out each night by 

" No, by car." 

" By car . ? " 

" Yes ; it is outside waiting for me now. 

And I must be getting off, too." He signed 

to the waiter. " I don't go to the hotel on 

Sundays, and our week-ends are very dear to 

my wife and me. The usual, waiter — there 

you are — thanks ! " 

He put down the money, rose, and was 
helped into his coat. Like a general, followed 
by his subordinates, he went down the long 
room. Outside was a magnificent Rolls- 
Royce. The chauffeur touched his cap. 
Gilmour shook hands with his old school- 
fellows, made as if to enter ; then paused 
with his foot on the step. 

" You must come over some week-end 
soon," he said. " Just write and pick a date. 
Northcote, North/wr/ — that will find me. 
Once again — good-bye ! " 

He shook hands a second time, turned again, 
and was getting into his car. Finlay, with 
a sudden impulse, put a hand upon his arm. 

" Gilmour ! " 

" Yes ? " 

" I — we — I think you're the luckiest of all 
of us. You haven't a care in the world ! " 

Gilmour expanded his arms and stretched 
himself, and gave a contented and luxurious 
" Ouf ! " 

" Yes, Bunny," he said, " I am lucky, 
gloriously lucky. I'm the happiest fellow in 
the world. I like my job and I live quietly, 
and I have no appearances to keep up ! " 

by Google 

Original from 









The Photographs 
"ustrating the fol- 
lowing article 
were exclusively 
posed for ' The 
Strand Maga- 
zine " by Miss 
Phyllis Dare (who 
first danced [he 
Tango in "' The 
Sunshine Girl " 
with Mr- George 
Grossrnith, and 
who even then, 
when the dance 
was not in favour, 
predicted its 
great future sue-* 
cess) and by Mr. 
Horace Howard, 
the well-known 



P the present time the Tango 
reigns su pre me, And y e t cm 1 y 
a few months ago a heated 
controversy was raging in 
Society on the subject of 
modern tendencies in dancing, 
and, with but a very few 
exceptions , the majority of English " autho- 

rities ' p attacked and belaboured the Tango 
with that wild fury which so often betokens 
most vacuous ignorance. 

However, to those of us who have studied 
the dance — many people who condemned it 
in the severest fashion seemed a little uncer^ 
tain as to what the Tango really was— it has 
always been obvious that this wholesale abuse 




1 admit that the original Tango was 

undoubtedly unsuked to the ballroom, 

as the dance should be danced to-day 

it is surely one of the most attractive 

and graceful ballroom dances that have 

ever been " all the rage/' Whether it 

will appear yet awhile at the State 

Ball and at hunt and county balls, which are 

proverbially conservative, I should not like to say. 

The fact remains, however, that every dancing 

enthusiast is now " doing it," and, this being so, 

and as one who was one of the first to realize iis 

many attractions, I hope and think 1 may he 

able to unravel not a few Tango tangles for those 

who call this dance u the Tango tease " — because 

they find they cannot master it as quickly as 

they conquer the dear old waltz and polka. 

What are the worst faults that Tango enthu- 
siasts usually commit ? Well, first and fore- 
most* I think that they do not show a suf- 
ficiently discerning judgment in selecting 


was so utterly and entirely un- 
justified that, in time, we all felt 
sure that there was bound to be a 
reaction. And now that reaction has 
surely arrived with a vengeance, for 
it is no exaggeration to say that for 
the next few months "everyone will be 

This change in public opinion, I must 
confess, is particularly satisfactory to me, 
for ever since I first danced the Tango in 
" The Sunshine Girl " I have most enthusi- 
astically recommended it to my friends. 
When first I did so I was told that Mrs. 
Grundy would never permit so improper a 
dance to be danced in our drawing-rooms. 
And when I [jointed out that the Tango, as 
properly danced to-day, has been shorn of 
all its objectionable features, I was politely 
but acidly told that I was " too up-to-date 
in my ideas." 

Still, all's well that ends well, and, although 

Digitized by GoOglC 




a teacher. The name of Tango teachers to-day 
is legion, but many of them unfortunately 
only teach their own versions, with the result 
that the pupils find that, although he or she 
can Tango quite excellently in the particular 
style in which their teacher has taught them, 
when they enter a ballroom they discover 
that their partners "Tango" in an entirely 
different manner. The reason for this lies 
in the fact that, to a certain extent, the Tango 
is a law unto Itself, and therefore when learning 
the dance it is advisable to select a teacher 
who follows out some popular and fixed method 
of initiating pupils into this most fascinating 
dance " craze." 

In my opinion, there is only one really sound 
way of learning the Tango; and that Ls to take 
lessons from a really good exponent who has 
also proved herself a good teacher as well as a 
good dancer* and to afterwards supplement these 
lessons by private practice at home. It is well, 

too, to go to a teacher 



who understands the 
advisability of showing 
his or her pupils five or 




six of the most important figures first. Under this 
head I would place (0 El Corte, the fundamental 
movement of the dance — this movement once 
mastered, the rest is easy ; (2) El Pasco, which is the 
peculiar walk with which it is usual to commence ; 
(3) Media Luna ; (4) Huite Croisse ; (5) The 
Scissors ; and (6) El Roueda* 

It is quite unnecessary for me to explain in this 
article the various intricacies of these figures, and 1 
only mention them to impress on Tango enthusiasts 
the advisability of selecting a teacher who will 
commence by putting them " wise r? as to exactly 
how these figures should be danced. 

Perhaps, of all figures r the most important and 
at the same time the most characteristic is El 
Corte. The enthusiast who has mastered the 
peculiar time and rhythm of this figure will have 
practically overcome fifty per cent, of the dilli- 
culties of dancing the Tango as it should be 
danced. I would emphasize., too, the all -im- 
portant point 0! remembering to dance the Tango 



or she is moving the feet in a correct manner, but the 
mere action of looking down is quite sufficient to 
upset the grace of deportment which is absolutely 
essential to dancing the Tango as it should be danced, 
In Fig. 3 (right) I have illustrated the start of El 
Paseo, the peculiar walk with which it is usual 
to commence, as it should be done. In Fig, 4 
(wrong) I have shown — in the illustrations 
demonstrating the most common faults Tango 
dancers commit, I have purposely slightly ex- 
aggerated these mistakes so that they may be 
apparent to readers at once — some particularly 
prevalent errors. Thus, firstly, the partners 
are too close to each other to allow freedom of 
movement ; and, secondly, my partner in the 
il lustration is holding me far loo tightly, thus 
causing the cramped position here shown, 
a position^ by the way, which you can see 
in any ballroom where the Tango is danced. 


as smoothly as possible, and also as quietly and grace- 
fully as possible. The reason why the Tango is so 
frequently danced in a manner which sends a cold 
shudder up one's back is that. In their enthusiasm 
to show how thoroughly they have mastered the 
Tango, ballroom dancers forget the value of dancing 
smoothly and indulge in various jerky^ jumpy steps 
which effectually kill the true spirit of u The Tango." 
To dance the Tango in a jerky manner is as unpardon- 
able an offence as to play a passage in music marked 
pianissimo with the loud pedal down* 

In Fig. 1 (right) you will see a position in the 
dancing of El Corte which is correct in every way. 
In Fig. 2 (wrong) you will see the most common 
faults perpetrated by Tango dancers in this move- 
ment. Far too many dancers are prone to look 
down when learning this step, thus causing the 
incorrect attitude shown in the photograph, and 
also causing one partner — in this case it is the 
lady, your humble servant — to lean back too far. 
I admit it is a natural fault on the part of a 
beginner to wish to look down to see whether he 

Digitized by C-t* 






Fig. 5 (right) shows an attitude which occurs most 
frequently in the Tango. Alth^ moment this photo- 
graph was taken I and my partner are seen making 
a " tap beat 7 * after three walking steps com- 
mencing the i£ Scissor ,J movement. In every- 
way the photograph shows this movement as it 
should be executed. In Fig, 6 (wrong) you can 
see at a glance that we are again too close to each 
other j and that, as a result, our knees are touch- 
ing, a fault which obviously causes 
the movement to appear ungainly \ 

and awkward. 

At all times I would ask Tango 
dancers to see to it that they are 
quite sure of their balance* thut 
they are keeping their knees supple, 
and— this is most important— that they are not hold- 
ing each other too lightly. Again, at all times the 
arms should be held loose* and the Tango danced 
slowly and to the time of the music. Not for a single 
instant do I agree with those who say that the Tango 
should be danced against the time of the music, 
although I know not a tew capable exponents who 
hold this belief. Personally, I repeat that experience 

HtS. 8. — THl MOV KM KM *limv\ |\ in;. 7 

has taught me that it is 
quite an erroneous one. 
But to proceed to the 
most common Tango 
mistakes. In Fig. 7 
(right) will be seen the 
first movement prepara- 
tory to commencing the 
" Scissor" figure, I and 
my partner are dancing 
the way we should dance 
correctly in every respect. 
In Fig. 8 (wrong) we 
have illustrated a pose 
which is seen very fre- 
quently indeed in the 
ballroom. In the first 
place , my partner is 
leaning forward too 
far j and as a result is 


dragging me with him, and is also allow- 
ing his knees to touch — and touch stiffly, 
I grant that this movement will not at 
first be found too simple, but, after all, is 
any real satisfaction to be derived from 
learning a dance the intricacies of which 
can be mastered in ten minutes ? 
Let me here say a few words about Tango 
music. Every Tango enthusiast, of course, 
knows that the music of this dance is founded 
on the Habanera. There are dozens and 
dozens of Tango tunes, but one 
of the best for beginners to study 
the marking of time from is bl El 
Choclo/' Still ,even in this popular 
tune there is a considerable lack 
of melody, and therefore per- 
haps the best advice to give to 
Tangoists in their early days is 
to see to it that the time of the 
umr f::orn. whi.oh they studv the 




dancers of the last shred of grace. Bad habits are easy to 
acquire in the learning of the Tango, but I would mark 
this particular fault as quite one of the worst, usually 
committed by moderately efficient dancers. 

I would mention, by the way, that I have met wildly 
enthusiastic experts who declare that to dance the 
Tango really well one should master anything be- 
tween seventy to eighty steps. My own idea, how- 
ever, is that if a dancer can thoroughly command 
a dozen, he or she will be able to derive quite as 
much amusement out of the dance as so-called 
experts who are continually inventing new steps, 
every one of which is more or less of a close relation 
to one of the dozen steps the less versatile per- 
former has at his or her " feet ?? ends. Besides, 
it must be admitted that the Tango is not an easy 
dance to master thoroughly, and even the learning 
of a dozen steps is no small undertaking. 

Fig. ii (right) provides, 1 think, a particularly 
graceful attitude, in which my partner is seen 
standing still } while I make two or three steps 
in front of him, finishing with El Corte. This 
figure is really quite easy to learn, but, tmfortii- 


various movements is absolutely correct. And also 
never to confuse Tango movements with ragtime 
movements — a mistake, by the way, which, strangely 
enough, is quite a common one. 

Fig* 9 (right) shows a pretty position which often 
occurs in the Tango, I am not attempting to give a 
name to each position mentioned in this article^ as 
so many people christen the various positions in 
a different manner, A glance at the pose here 
shown should, however, be quite sufficient to 
show Tango dancers exactly the attitude 
they should adopt* 

Fig, 10 (wrong) shows a particularly com- 
mon fault in this movement — namely , that 
the dancers are turning their toes up. At 
first this is what one might almost term a 
u natural*' fault ; hut, at the same time, it 
is a particularly serious one, for the toes 
turned upwards rob the movements of the 




by LiOOgle 

FIG. 10. — THE WRONG, 

Original from 



natelyj in the learning of it Tango dancers are, 
at first, liable to fall into one or two serious 
errors* What these errors are can be seen at a 
glance in Fig. 12 (wrong). Thus my partner's 
leet are locked together, while I am on the 
turn a few inches behind him, which causes 
the position to look awkward in the extreme, 
Compare this incorrect position, which is so 
very frequently seen in the ballroom, with the 
correct position, and you will see at once what 
a vast difference there is between the correct 
and the incorrect way of carrying out this 

I now come to a particularly effective and 
very graceful movement (Fig. 13 — right). In 
this it is necessary to turn the feet out and 
keep the knees open to secure a graceful 
result. It is also necessary for the dancers 
to preserve an absolutely perfect balance, 
and to move together in perfect time ; 
otherwise— w r ell, take a glance at Fig. 14 




This photograph , which I have purposely 

very much over-exaggerated T shows the 

appallingly ugly pose which results from 

dancers not tarrying out the advice given* 

And yet* times without number, I have seen 

couples dancing the Tango, each of whom 

has been making almost precisely the same 

faults as are shown in this illustration. 

So far as men are concerned. I would most 
earnestly advise no Tango enthusiast to 
attempt to dance in a public ballroom before 
lit- has practised assiduously at home, and has 
thus been able to gain considerable profkieney 
and experience, In the Tango the main re- 
sponsibility of initiation and guidance rests 
almost entirely on the male partner, for I am 
not exaggerating when I say that, so far as 
his partner is concerned, all that is demanded 
of her is intelligent an tic s pa t ion ♦ 




would-be Tango experts who base their style on movements they 
have seen on the stage would be well advised to subdue that 
style before giving an exposition of it in the ballroom. 

And now I think I have thoroughly covered the quest ion as 
to w T hat faults are the most common among Tango enthu- 
siasts in ballroom dancing, I would repeat again that., 
comparatively speaking, the Tango is not a dance which 
can be " picked up '* in a few minutes. At the same 
time, when once the groundwork has been mastered, 
whatever you do, please go to a teacher who will 
initiate you into the six figures I mentioned at the 
beginning of this article — it is quite a simple matter 
to learn many new figures. In one's early Tangoing 
days it is, I think , advisable also to go to a teacher 
who holds dancing classes ; but I also think it is 
a mistake to attend a class until one has had a few- 
private lessons, for at first the steps are apt to 
appear so intricate that, until one has thoroughly 
mastered them, one always runs the risk of dis- 
couragement through becoming confused in 
showing off one's scanty knowledge before others. 
And just one last word ! Please don't imagine 
that there is the slightest impropriety about any 
single movement of the Tango as it is danced 


Some people who have only seen 
the Tango danced on the stage 
still believe that many of the 
movements err on the side of 
"acrobaticism," for not a few 
of my friends have told me that 
movements they have seen in 
the theatre have impressed them 
as being far more acrobatic 
than graceful. To a certain 
extent, no doubt .this criticism 
is a just one ; but 
then it must be re- 
membered that on 
the stage, to secure 
a really good effect , 
a certain amount of 
exaggeration is abso- 
lutely necessary, wa 

This being so., 

to-day. It has long 
since been rescued 
from the cabarets 
of the Argentine 
and of Mont- 
mart re, and is 
now an original 
and beautiful 
dance which 
anyone can 
learn with 
amount of 


by LiOOglC 





^y Arthur Eckersley 

Illustrated by A.CMichael 

still and dark was the room 
that Thursfield, opening his 
eyes, imagined himself for 
some moments to be wakening 
in his own bed on a winter's 
morning. But the bed was 
strangely hard and uncom- 
fortable. He shivered, and, putting out a 
hand to drag the clothes more closely over his 
shoulders, became aware that they did not 
exist. This roused him sufficiently to sit up, 
when he realized that he had been lying fully 
dressed on a sofa in a room that was unfamiliar 
to him. He paused there to grapple with this 
problem ; and very slowly the vague con- 
sciousness of something unpleasant that was in 
his mind took shape as a clear recollection 
of the events of the previous night. His 
head ached furiously ; that told him that he 
had been drinking ; and immediately he 
remembered where and how he had spent his 
last sovereign in the effort to acquire courage 
enough for his interview with Marston. 
Marston ? That brought him a little nearer. 
% He could recall now an uncertain journey 
through the streets to the money-lender's 
house, and how Marston himself had come to 
the door, explaining that he was alone, and 
led him upstairs to the room in which he 
transacted his accursed business. Afterwards 
there must have been high words between 
them ; he had an impression of himself full 
of blustering defiance, and the other impassive, 

Vol. xlvii.—e. 


mercilessly courteous, as always, towards his 
victims ; then the picture clouded. It 
appeared as though the wine must all at once 
have taken effect, since he had no recollection 
whatever of leaving the usurer's house, or of 
how he came to his present position. It was 
at this moment that he made the second 
startling discovery. He had not left the 
house at all. The paper on the walls was the 
same that had danced before his eyes during 
the scene with the old man. Therefore he 
was still in Marston's room. 

Stiffly he raised himself to his feet, and 
looked round. The blind was drawn ; but 
through the chinks of it came a faint light as 
of early morning. Turning from this, at 
once his eyes fell on the figure of Marston 
himself. The money-lender sat at his desk, 
exactly as Thursfield remembered last to have 
seen him, wrapped in a dressing-gown of 
flowered silk, He was leaning back in his 
chair, staring at and beyond Thursfield with 
eyes of which the whites were objectionably 
prominent. His face was of a greenish 
pallor, except on one side where blood had 
run down from a wound somewhere in his 
head, staining his hair and the neck and 
breast of the silk wrapper. He had obviously 
been dead for some hours. Just as Thursfield 
was about to demand an explanation he 
realized this, and stopped. Then he began to 
tremble so violently that he had to catch hold 
of the table to steady himself. 




All this 
was before 
lie had per- 
ceived the 
stick. That 
was lKc next 
tha. hi j eyes 
mad e as 
they travel- 
led over the 
figure. The 
sJck lay on 
the floor 
beside and 
a little be- 
hind Mars- 

where it must have been 
dropped after the fatal 
bio*. It was an oak 
stick f with an unusually 
thick knob j into which 
lend had been inserted 
to make it heavier* It 
was, indeed, less a walk- 
ing-stick than a weapon, 
hursfield had often 
endured chaff on account 
of it and its murderous 
possibilities. For the 
stick was his. Very 
slowly, fighting with all 
ihe power of his mind 
against it, he was being 


by Google' 


UNIVE^W^l5Wr ,KU,T "" 



made to realize the meaning of this. He 
himself had killed Marston ! 

His imagination, having accepted the fact, 
raced away over details and possibilities. He 
must have already been half insensible when, 
in a fit of drunken frenzy, he had done this 
•thing ; else how came he immediately after- 
wards to have fallen asleep in the same room 
as the corpse ? But drunken frenzy is not 
commonly accepted as an excuse for murder. 
Thursfield saw himself on the gallows. Unless 

— unless At once an extraordinary 

watchful calm fell upon him ; and while one 
part of his brain yet reeled with the discovery, 
the other began devising and rejecting schemes 
for escape. It was precisely as though he were 
two persons — the murderer, and an alert 
onlooker who wished to save him. 

He glanced first at the clock. It pointed to 
a few minutes past six. That meant that he 
had at most only half an hour before the house 
would waken. He must be well away by 
then. He stooped and noiselessly picked up 
the stick, noticing, as he did so, that there was 
a red stain on his own hand. This might have 
been made only a few minutes ago when he 
touched the table. Or it might have come 
earlier. His cap was on a chair by the door, 
where he remembered to have flung it down 
on entering. He put this on ; and then, very 
quietly, opened the door. The most difficult 
part of his task was now before him. If, by 
chance, he were to meet anyone on the stairs ! 

As he stood hesitating, with his hand on 
the door, another idea struck him. In the 
shock of finding Marston dead he had forgotten 
the living Marston, who had goaded and 
terrorized him for debts. The papers acknow- 
ledging these were, he knew, in the safe that 
stood behind the writing-table. With his 
own eyes he had seen the usurer replace them 
there, gloatingly. And — yes — the key was 
even now in the lock. It would be the easiest 
possible thing to open it and remove the 
papers. After all, if he was to run this risk 
it seemed a pity not to have some advantage 
from it. In a moment he was fumbling at the 
safe with hands not so steady as the brain 
that directed them. 

It was this watching and planning Thurs- 
field that now suddenly pulled him up by 
pointing out that his present action was 
enormously increasing the chances of detection. 
It was inevitable that besides the papers 
themselves some record of his transactions 
with Marston existed in ledgers or diaries kept 
by the dead man. If these were read, and 
the documents missing, the rope was already 
as good as round his neck. The relief from 

financial want that he had been about to 
secure was nothing in comparison with this 
danger. Instead of opening the safe he locked 
it, and removing the key laid it on the desk 
beside the outstretched hand. 

That had been a narrow escape. He crept 
to the door again, and passing out on to the 
landing closed it very softly behind him. 

So far as he knew, Marston lived in the 
house alone except for an old man who had 
long been his servant and clerk. It was 
probable that he slept on the floor above, and 
would not be easily aroused. 

Twice or thrice the stairs creaked an alarm 
that his fears magnified a thousand times, but 
the silence of the sleeping house remained 
unbroken. He gained the front door, and 
was about to turn the handle when he 
remembered the marks that his fingers might 
leave. He muffled his hand in his soft cap, 
and thus grasped and opened the door. 

Another danger that the watching intelli- 
gence had enabled him to avert. The air of 
a damp autumn morning struck his face with 
an invigorating chill. As far as he could see, 
the square in which the house stood was 
empty. Fortune favoured him. He closed 
the door cautiously and began to walk briskly 

To have got clear of the house was so much 
to the good that he felt his elation and cer- 
tainty of escape increasing with every step. 
The knobbed stick was still in his hand. On 
a sudden impulse he crossed the road to the 
railings that enclosed the garden of the 
square and thrust the stick in as far as he 
could among the bushes. This action pleased 
him enormously. It was, he thought, the 
last place in which the police would think of 
searching for the missing weapon. He 
returned to the houses and walked on. 

It was at this moment that he became 
aware of other footsteps in the square. For 
a moment he took the noise for an echo ; but 
when he paused to test this he could still 
hear it. In the silence it had a sinister and 
mysterious sound. All at once an uncon- 
trollable curiosity as to this solitary wayfarer 
took possession of Thursfield. He felt that 
not to see him would be a thing intolerable ; 
something that would haunt him like a night- 
mare. As he hung irresolute the footsteps 
ceased suddenly ; they had come to a halt 
just out of sight round the corner that he 
himself had turned. But the first house 
round the corner was Marston's. At this 
Thursfield knew that he must see the unknown 
at any cost ; sanity demanded it. He crossed 
again to the railings and, keeping close to 



them, tip-toed at a run back to a point whence 
he could command Marston's door. It did not 
occur to him that all this might appear a very 
extraordinary proceeding to anyone watch- 
ing from the many windows of the square. 
He thought of nothing except the fact that 
a man was standing on the steps of the house 
he had just left, in the act of applying a latch- 
key to the lock. As it turned he raised his 
head, and Thursfield recognized the old clerk 
Wickstead. Fool ! So all that elaborate 
caution had been needless, since there had 
really been no one in the house but himself. 
Then he remembered how Marston had told 
him that the clerk was away. Fool again ! 
But there was no harm done. The thing 
now was to put as great a distance as 
possible between himself and the house before 
Wickstead made his inevitable discovery. 

Walking quickly, in twenty minutes or so 
he had gained his home and let himself in 
with the key upon his watch-chain. The 
streets were by this time growing populous, 
and Thursfield had met many persons in the 
last mile ; fortunately, however, no one who 
had appeared to recognize him. Even the 
policeman whom he passed at the corner of 
his own road was a stranger. It gave him 
an oddly adventurous thrill, the first of many, 
to approach this man. Almost without 
intention he very slightly brushed against 
the uniformed arm in passing, thinking to 
himself, "If he only knew ! " Neither now 
nor later was he aware of the slightest 
remorse for the dead man. 

Thursfield, like his victim, lived alone ; he 
inhabited two small rooms at the back of the 
second-hand bookshop that furnished his 
ostensible means of livelihood. As a matter 
of fact, the shop was a hobby, and rather a 
loss than a profit — hence his implication with 
the money-lender. The quiet familiarity of 
its appearance was grateful to him now. He 
went to his bedroom, and, taking off the suit 
he had been wearing, put on another, hiding 
the first in a parcel under the bed. Then he 
lit his kitchen fire and prepared breakfast, 
all in a manner entirely methodical ; after 
he had done this and taken down the shutters 
of the shop, there was nothing left but to 

The first tidings would probably reach 
him with the afternoon papers. As the 
day wore on his interest and (one might 
almost say) his secret pleasure in 
the situation waxed enormously. He had 
no longer the slightest fear of discovery. 
The steadiness of his own hand interested 
him ; and he was more than ever conscious 

of that double brain, the one performing its 
ordinary, everyday tasks, the other watch- 
fully preoccupied with one thought. 

When the earliest boy appeared with the 
evening papers he went to his door and bought 
one ; he did not retire with it to the parlour 
behind the shop, but opened it where he stood 
in the full light of the street. 

There was a touch of " swagger " in this, 
the dawning of an impulse that was to in- 
crease. As he expected, the paper contained 
a brief paragraph about Marston ; it was a 
few lines only, in the " Stop Press " column. 
" It is reported that Mr. James Marston, a 
money-lender, was found murdered in his 

residence at Square this morning. The 

shocking discovery was made by Alfred 
Wickstead, confidential clerk to the deceased, 
who, on entering his master's office about 
nine a.m., found him dead. The police were 
at once communicated with, and an arrest is 
said to be expected shortly." 

The conventional optimism of the last 
words did not greatly disturb Thursfield. 
He was, however, surprised at the lateness 
of the discovery ; it was remarkable that 
Wickstead should have been in the house 
for more than two hours before* 
However, it was done now, and the air felt 
clearer in consequence. A great curiosity, 
that was quite removed from fear, as to the 
movements of the police took possession of 
him. If he could only get information about 
this he would be doubly armed. Then his 
eye fell upon a pile of books on his desk, and 
he had difficulty in preventing himself from 
shouting. Of course ! That was the way. 
Fortune was certainly favouring him. Among 
his few clients was Pilling, the great Scotland 
Yard expert. Hitherto their relations had 
been simply those of bookseller and customer ; 
but it chanced that Pilling had come into the 
shop a few days before in search of a particu- 
lar volume that the dealer had promised to 
procure for him. The arrangement had been 
that the detective should call again for it at 
a date unspecified ; but there was the book 
now on Thursfield's desk. Nothing would be 
simpler or more natural than for him to take 
it to the house himself after business hours. 

Apart from other reasons, the idea pleased 
him by its suggestion of carrying the war 
into the enemy's country. He should be 
spying upon the spy. 

It was some time after dark when he set 
out, carrying the book, which was the first of 
two volumes of a county history ; he had 
retained the second in case the pretext for 
another visit should be necessary. The 




interval, since closing the shop at dusk, he 
had spent in burning every scrap of clothing 
that he had worn the night before. It seemed 
then that the last link associating him with 
the crime was destroyed. 

The detective was at home and welcomed 
him warmly. Pilling was a rotund, benevo- 
lent-faced old gentleman, whose appearance — 
rather like that of a country cleric — had long 
been his greatest asset. Apart from his 
work he had but two enthusiasms — gambling, 
and the collection of works bearing upon the 
topography of Norfolk. It was one of these 
that had furnished Thursfield with his excuse. 
" Very kind of you, I'm sure," said Pilling, 
fingering the volume lovingly and gazing in 
a friendly manner at the visitor. Work 
being over for the day, Pilling had permitted 
himself to relax into a velvet smoking-jacket ; 
there were spirits on the table beside him, 
and a kettle on the hob. " Draw up your 
chair, Mr. Thursfidd, and let me mix you 

Thursfield obeyed the suggestion. He had 
been glancing round the comfortable, book- 
lined room ; it was as unlike a spider's web 
as possible, yet that was what it represented 
for him. And here he was in the midst of it 
and not afraid, only amused. 

" I knew you were a busy man, Mr. Pilling," 
he said, " but I hoped this late hour would 
find you at liberty." 

■' To be sure. I work for my living the 
same as another. Precious hard work, too, 

" But interesting ? " Thursfield ventured. 
His host handed him a glass, smiling 

" It brings one into contact with human 
nature," he admitted, " and, of course, there 
is to some extent the element of sensa- 
tionalism." He lifted his own tumbler, 
nodded, and drank. " But not nearly so 
much so, Mr. Thursfield, as outsiders would 

" No ? " Thursfield drank too, gazing 
with apparent reverence at the smiling face 
of his host. " One imagines," he said, 

timidly, " all sorts of things — murders " 

Pilling laughed easily. " Believe me, my 
friend," he answered, " the average murder 
is the most humdrum affair conceivable. 
You can take that from one who knows ! " 

" Pretentious ass ! " reflected Thursfield, 
inwardly. " Fancy his teaching me ! " Con- 
ceit tickled him again. If this patronizing 
old fool only knew ! Then he schooled his 
face to the proper degree of deference. 
" Really ? " he murmured. 

d oyGooQle 

"Yes," said Pilling. "Take a case in 
point. This new murder that the late editions 
are so full of. I'm not professionally con- 
cerned, so I can talk freely. They call it a 
mystery at present, but I haven't the least 
doubt in the world that it will turn out quite a 
simple matter." 

" You think they'll take the— him ? " asked 
Thursfield. It had been a sharp disappoint- 
ment to learn that Pilling himself was not 
conducting the investigation. But a moment 
later he saw this as another advantage. The 
detective would be sure to know what was on 
foot, and he (Thursfield) would benefit by 
his lack of professional reticence. 

" My dear sir," returned Pilling, " in a 
large experience I have never yet met the 
case in which I myself was not certain of the 
guilty party. As for this Marston affair, 
show me the facts, and I am prepared to 
wager I could put my hand on the murderer 
to-morrow." In an expansive mood he laid 
his open palm upon Thursfield's knee as he 

" I'm sure I believe you, Mr. Pilling," said 
the bookseller. He was quivering with secret 
and exquisite laughter ; this visit was proving 
even more amusing than he had hoped. 

Pilling smiled, not ill-pleased. " Let us 
see," he answered. " It might be an inter- 
esting exercise. I wonder if you have time 
to attend the inquest ? I haven't. But if 
you care to drop in and hear the evidence, 
you bring it to me in the evening and I'll 
tell you who did the murder. Is it a bargain, 
eh ? We might even have a little money on 
the result — say, the price of this book ? " 
The idea evidently appealed to him ; he sat 
forward regarding Thursfield with alert 
interest. " Is it a bargain ? " he repeated. 

" Well, really, I By all means," said 

Thursfield. Things were working out even 
better than he had dared to hope. At this 
rate he should be well in with the enemy's 

" Excellent. In the meantime, I consider 
myself free to make use of any facts that may 
come my way." The detective paused 
thoughtfully. " I suppose you yourself knew 
nothing of this man Marston ? " he asked. 

The question was entirely unexpected, but 
Thursfield, to his own admiration, met it 
without a tremor. 

" Unfortunately, I did," he admitted. "I 
owed him — indeed, I suppose I may say I still 
owe his executors — a fairly big sum." To 
himself he was reflecting that a fool would 
have blustered or denied. 

" Ah," said Pilling, with an accent of 






sympathy, " a hard creditor, by all accounts. 
I hope you may find the estate easier to deal 
with." He rose, ending the interview. 
" Till to-morrow, Mr. Thursfield." 

Outside the bookseller paused on the 
pavement j looking up to the quiet stars that 
seemed to twinkle at him in recognition of 
his daring, 

11 Who would have believed it ? ri he 
thought. " I am more than a match for 
them all ! " And to-morrow, the inquest. 
While they pryed and questioned he would 
be sitting at hand all the time, unchallenged. 
He lay long awake, hugging himself with 
amusement at the irony of it. 

As things turned out, however, the inquest 
proved somewhat disappointing. The pro- 
ceedings were largely formal. Wickstead 
was there, of course, and his evidence caused 
Thursfield some quiet amusement. The old 
clerk looked to have aged appreciably in the 
few hours since the watcher had last seen 
him. He gave his evidence feebly, and seemed 
dazed by what had happened. Anyone who 
had not known Mars ton might have supposed 
him overcome by the loss of a beloved master- 
He was unable to explain anything, or to 

throw any light upon the crime. He himself, 
as it happened, had been absent from the 
house that night, only returning in the 
morning. At about half-past eight, he 
believed, but was unable to say precisely. 

Thursfield suppressed with difficulty an 
insane impulse to correct this. Then he 
leant forward, as did the rest of the company, 
while, amid a tense silence, the old man 
described the finding of the body. The room, 
it appeared, had been almost quite dark, and 
as in any case his sight was not strong, he had 
not at first perceived that anything was amiss 
— not, indeed, till he had turned from draw- 
ing up the blind. After he had given in 
detail the position and appearance of the 
body some questions were put by the coroner 
with the apparent object of finding out what 
portions of the room were invisible from the 

" This sofa, for example "—Thursfield 
gave an almost imperceptible start—** which, 
as we have seen from the plan, was on the 
other side of the writing-table, would be 
hidden from you entirely ? ,3 

Wickstead was understood to agree. 

" Then/^IiBiaSrtJplefnQDinqiner, with a glance 




towards the reporters, " it would have been 
quite possible for the murderer to have been 
concealed in the room when you entered it, 
and to have made his escape while your atten- 
tion was occupied with the blind ? " 

Wickstead, after a moment's hesitation, 
admitted the truth of this. 

"Ah!" said the coroner, triumphantly. 
It was a dramatic point, and produced a per- 
ceptible thrill amongst the spectators. The 
coroner, feeling he had secured a good climax, 
adjourned the inquiry. Thursfield, mingling 
with the crowd that flocked out of court, was 
hardly able to restrain his laughter. How 
easy it was to outwit such dullards. But he 
was sorry for the old man ; something should, 
if possible, be done to compensate him for all 

The remainder of the day wearied and 
irritated Thursfield, who was all impatience 
for his interview with the detective. 

He found Pilling awaiting him with an air of 
obvious expectation. The benevolent patron- 
age of the detective's manner half amused 
and half incensed Thursfield ; his self-impor- 
tance and the knowledge of his secret made 
it difficult to bear. But it was clear that the 
other was eager to give him some information. 

" Sit down, sit down ! " he cried, fussily. 
" You have come about our little wager ? 
Well, did the inquest throw any fresh light 
upon this precious ' mystery ' ? " 

Filling's eyes were twinkling with anticipa- 
tion. He was so clearly only marking time 
before making a sensational disclosure that 
Thursfield answered shortly. 

" Nothing that everybody didn't know 
before. With all their trouble they are as 
far as ever from putting their hands on the 
criminal." The mocking quotation was a 
little skip upon the tight-rope that he could 
not resist. 

The other leant back comfortably. " What 
would you say, then, Mr. Thursfield," he 
asked, " if I told you I have already done 

For a moment even Thursfield was startled. 
He recalled the incident of the previous night. 
Then he glanced again at the smiling counte- 
nance opposite to him, and was reassured. 

" You're not serious ? " he said. 

" Never more so. As I anticipated, the 
case is as plain as the proverbial pikestaff. 
I should, however, make an admission. Our 
little talk last night interested me so much 
that I found time to-day to pursue some 
inquiries on my own account. I spent 
an hour or so on the scene of the crime. 
But it didn't take me a quarter of the 

time to get at the truth. Bowers, who is 
doing the case for the Crown, was good 
enough to compliment me on my quickness. 
His conclusions were, of course, the same as 
my own, but he'd taken two days to reach 

" And what were they ? " asked Thursfield. 

" Well, primarily that the murder must 
have been committed by someone who was 
an inmate of the house. This was shown in 
twenty ways, many of which might escape 
the superficial observer. I was able to point 
out a few to Bowers. Did you speak ? " 

Thursfield had made an inarticulate sound, 
which might have been a cough or a strangled 
laugh. He shook his head. 

" It would take too long to go into all the 
proofs I found, some of them very minute. 
The most obvious was that of the finger- 
marks. The impression of a man's hand, 
stained with blood, was clearly visible on the 
door of the room in which the body lay. 
The house door yielded no marks whatever. 
What do you make of that ? " 

Thursfield cleared his throat again. " What 
do you ? " he asked. 

" In combination with one or two other 
little curious points (amongst them the fact 
that the key of the safe, found beside the 
dead man, must have been placed there by 
the murderer some hours after the crime !), the 
inference is surely unmistakable. The man 
who killed Marston lived under the same roof." 

" But there was nobody " began 

Thursfield ; then he paused, silenced by the 
triumph on the face of Pilling. " There was 
only old Wickstead," he substituted. 

" Either to-night or to-morrow morning 
Wickstead will be arrested for wilful murder," 
said Pilling, calmly. 

To say that Thursfield was staggered by 
this information would be untrue. As yet 
he was conscious of nothing but that his plans 
would require some rearranging in face of a 
new development. He had never expected 
anything of the kind. Of course, the man 
could be in no actual danger ; there must 
obviously be a flaw somewhere that would 
make conviction impossible. Still — it was 
a complication. He was silent for a moment 
or two. 

" So I'm afraid I get my county history for 
nothing," observed Pilling, pleasantly. 

Thursfield laughed ; he had already made 
up his mind. " Only when the case is 
proved," he answered. He had determined 
that the first thing he must do was to see 
Wickstead and ^arn him, if it were not too 

late - In ufMYra^# er steps - 



His boundless confidence in himself had not 
been shaken. " But I have to thank you 
for an interesting object-lesson/' he added. 

He rose, declining Pilling's hospitable offers 
of refreshment, and as quickly as possible 
got himself out of the room. Not only did 
what he conceived to be duty urge him towards 
Wickstead, but he was subconsciously aware 
that an experience lay before him of keener 
quality than any yet. The real murderer 
intervening to save a wrongly-accused man — 
there was drama in that ! 

It was already ten o'clock when he left 
Pilling's door, and every moment was pre- 
cious. As he drew near the house of the 
dead money-lender he recalled vividly his 
last visit, just forty-eight hours before. 
Strangely (even to himself), the thought of 
re-entering the scene of his crime had no 
terrors for him ; vanity seemed altogether to 
have taken the place of fear. 

He knew from the evidence at the inquest 
that Wickstead still slept at the house. As 
he mounted the steps towards the familiar 
door the figure of a policeman emerged from 
the shadow of the opposite trees, and for a 
moment a lantern was flashed upon him. 
This reassured Thursfield, since it told him 
that the arrest had not yet been made. The 
place was still under observation. 

In answer to his summons the old clerk 
himself opened the door. Great as had been 
the change that he had noticed earlier in the 
day, Thursfield was hardly prepared for the 
haggard and ghastly face that confronted him 
by the light of the hall lamp. The shock 
seemed to have destroyed in it all vitality. 

Wickstead, however, gave no sign of 
astonishment at the visit at such an hour. 
Silently he motioned the other to enter, and, 
closing the hall door again, led the way to a 
little room on the ground floor that served 
for his office. The other room, acutely 
present in Thursfield 's thoughts, lay imme- 
diately over this. 

Inside, Wickstead turned towards the book- 
seller, and stood waiting patiently for him to 
speak. Thursfield was suddenly conscious 
of something in his manner that he could 
not define. He began almost blusteringly. 

" It's about this affair of Marston." 
Then, with a memory of the sentinel outside, 
he lowered his voice. " I've come to warn you." 

" Ah ? " Wickstead's eyes, incredibly 
sunken and old, dwelt upon him for a 
moment. " That was kind of you, Mr. — 
Thursfield, isn't it? Yes, I remember you well." 

" You ought to know," whispered Thurs- 
field, " that there is every likelihood of your 

being arrested on suspicion. I heard of it 
to-night by— by accident. I want to do 
anything I can to help you." 

" Very kind," repeated the old man ; 
" very kind, indeed. I'm sure I don't know 
why you should interest yourself in this way. 
It's no use now, but I thank you all the same . * ' 

Thursfield imagined that his mind was 
wandering. As he spoke he had begun to 
fumble with a long drawer in the table. The 
bookseller watched him impatiently. 

" D'you understand me ? " he said. " Of 
course we know that the charge is impossible. 
You were away from the house all that night. 
There should be no difficulty in proving this ; 

but in case " He broke off, the words 

frozen on his lips by astonishment at something 
that the old man had just taken from the 
drawer and laid upon the table between them. 

It was an oaken stick, with a jagged knob 
impossible to mistake. 

" Heavens ! " cried Thursfield, sharply. 
" Where did you get that ? " 

Wickstead glanced down at it for a moment, 
then raised his eyes again to his visitor. 

" That," he said, " I found in the garden 
of the square. How it came there I don't 
know. It is the stick with which I killed 

The words were so gently spoken that 
Thursfield could not credit his own hearing. 

" What ? " he cried, leaning forward and 
staring at the other in bewilderment. 

" I'm afraid I startled you," said the old 
man. " Yes, it was I who murdered him. I 
could see that they suspected me at the 
inquest. In any case, I should have given 
myself up to-morrow. The strain has been 
too great. You would hardly believe what 
the past two days have been to me." 

" But— but " Thursfield gasped, in- 
coherently. The ground was trembling 
beneath his feet. "It's impossible!" 

" Oh, no, it isn't. You see, I was not 
really away all that night. I came back 
unexpectedly about two o'clock. Things had 
been happening to me, and I was a little 
excited. I went up to the office, never expect- 
ing to find Marston there at such an hour. I 
had made up my mind to destroy certain 
papers of mine that he had been using to 
hold over me. I hated him very much. 
When I opened the door the room was dark, 
except for a reading lamp, which showed 
the desk and Marston sitting there with his 
back to me. As I entered I knocked against 
this stick, which must have been left near 
the door by some visitor. All at once my 
hatred against the man became ungovernable. 




I killed 

bim with the 
stick where 
he sat." 

His quiet 
voi ce re- 
peated the 
story almost without 
emotion or feeling of 
any kind. As Thursfield 
listened, and the con- 
viction grew upon him 
that this was the truth, 
the whole monstrous 
structure that his 

Vol xlviL-7, 





by Google 

egotism had built up began to 
crumble about him. He trembled. 
The old man was still speakings 
apparently unconscious of the 
effect of his words. . 

!l Directly it was done I fled 
from the room and the house. 
For hours I wandered the streets, 
Tt was early morning before I re- 
^^ turned, and even then not for a 
*>* long time could I nerve myself 
\ to face the study 

again. The dis- 
appearance of the 
stick perplexed 
me, I did not 
know, as I do 
now, that I must 
have taken it 
away myself. You 
see 3 I can explain 

Thursfield saw, 
T h e whole 
sequence of 
events was clear 
to him. He saw 
the old clerk 
striking downhis 
master, while all 
the time he 
(Thursfield) lay 
w r a p p e d in 
drunken stupor 
on the sofa 
where doubt- 
less Mars ton 
had contemptu- 
ously allowed him 
to remain. This 
was the part he 
had really played, 
who had believed 
himself the super- 
man, exulting in 
his own audacity 
and skill. Dis- 
illusion over- 
whelmed him. 

il But mind/' 
the other pro- 
tested, with the first touch of feeling 
that he had shown, " the man was 
a villain. I am not sorry fo: what I 

M Neither was I," answered Thursfield. 
He turned towards the door, moving 
heavily, "There's a policeman outside/* 
he said, "if you want him*" 
Original from 





A Symposium of tKe Opinions of Many Celebrities in Various AiValks 

oi Life. 

SgjflOR a number of years past the 
marriage rate has been slowly, 
but none the less steadily, on 
the decline. Is this the fault 
of man or woman ? The 
subject is one of such far- 
reaching interest and impor- 
tance that we have obtained the views of 
many well-known people in various walks 
of life. 

Dr. C W. 3ALEE0Y, M.D., F.R S. 

It seems to me 
that the vastly in- 
teresting and still 
more important 
query as to why 
the marriage rate 
is declining is one 
almost impossible 
to answer with any 
degree of real con- 
viction. My own 
personal opinion, 
however, is that 
we shall need to 
make the con- 
ditions of marriage, including divorce, 
infinitely fairer for women if marriage is to 
maintain its place in the social structure. 
At present these laws leave so much to be 
desired from the standpoint of fairness that, 
to all thinking people, it cannot be a matter 
for surprise that the marriage rate is on the 

Digitized by Google 


Nothing is so simple as 
to have but one cause ur 
one remedy. Therefore t if 
one should say " the " 
cause of a decline 
in marriage rate, 
which need not be 
symbolical of racial 
decay as is the 
greater decline in 
birth rate, is this 
or that , the best 
answer is the re- 
mark o f a du ck whe n 
it enters water : 
" Quack/' Nor do 

I think that it is easy to indicate with 
obvious and entire truth what is the chief 
cause of a decline, nor to make separate 
causes of influences which intertwine and 
react one upon another. 

Yet the cause which occurs to me as the 
chief, according to my experience in the 
lower and lower middle classes, is that young 
men, more than young women, require for 
themselves a higher standard of comfort at 
the beginning of housekeeping than their 
parents, and still more than their grand- 
parents, required. This is not mainly due to 
an increase in the cost of living, for pari passu 
has gone on some rise of wage and income ; 
but it is due to the vision of comparative 
luxury, and the envy of those to whom it is 
financially easy of attainment, which has 




obscured the light and beauty and moral 
education of beginning life in a humble, 
simple , and even self-denying way. 

As to the query, " Is there anything wrong 
which is entirety the fault of either men or 
of women? " I think the fault is mainly on 
the man's side, The woman, usually, is 
ready for the sacrifice involved in beginning 
simply, and not requiring that the home of 
the artisan husband shall be equal in comfort 
and ease to that of the foreman ; but the man 
is perhaps excusing selfishness by a cloak of 
considerate affection when he talks of not 
wanting to marry until he can give the girl 
all she has been accustomed to at home. 

I married into two furnished rooms, and 
the gradual gathering together of furniture 
for a home, and the gradual filling of that 
home with simple things beyond mere 
necessaries, had its own pleasure and gave a 
fragrance of its own to early married life 
which no immediate entrance into an amply- 
equipped villa could have provided. 


It is, I feel sure, 
the change in the 
manners, h a b i t s, 
customs of the times 
that is responsible 
for the stead ily- 
decreasing marriage 
rate. When I was 
a girl it was not per- 
mitted for young 
ladies to have a 
tenth of the amount of freedom and liberty 
that is theirs to-day. The daily lunching 
and dining at restaurants with young men 
and girls of their own age which is so 
common to-day was unknown in my girl- 
hood days. In consequence, both girls and 
men felt that if they wished to meet often, 
and as, in such case, they would always 
have to meet at home, it would save a lot 
of trouble if they were to marry and make 
a home for themselves, 

But what is the case to-day ? In many 
respects girls enjoy almost equal freedom 
and liberty as do men. True, if their parents 
happen to be at all strict they are supposed 
to requisition the services of a chaperon, 
but the majority of chaperons in these days 
are far more lenient than they used to be. 
The result is that young people have so much 
more freedom, see so much of each other as 

a u matter of course," and not as " an 
occasion on a red-letter day," that after a 
time they begin to feel that it might be 
irksome to have to give up some of this 
freedom and sacrifice their butterfly habits — 
to a considerable extent at least. 

Someone has said that our grandmothers' 
chief privileges were to be permitted to knit 
— and to swoon. If this be true, they must 
have done so at home. What are the chief 
privileges of modern girls ? Certainly they 
can knit and swoon if they like, but they 
wisely prefer not to ; in any case, if they 
did they would never think of doing so at 
home. No ; to look at the question broadly 
and with unbiased mind, and bearing in mind 
the changes which have taken place in our 
daily habits within the past fifteen or twenty 
years, I cannot help thinking that the chief 
reason why the marriage rate is declining 
lies in the fact that intercourse between 
men and women to-day is ten thousand times 
less restricted than was the case in the child- 
hood days of our parents. 

E. TEMPLE THURSTON (Author of M RichmJ 
Furhm^' 1 "The Greatest Wish in the World." erc.X 


To lay the fault of 
the decline of the 
marriage rate at any 
one party's door would 
surely be grossly un- 
fair. If there is a 
quarrel on this point 
between the sexes , 
then it must have 
taken two to make it. 
Perhaps women know 
their men better than 
they did, and men 

their women. Possibly, 

too, there is too little idealism in life, and 

maybe the vulgarity of the daily Press is the 

cause of it. There is no man, as there is no 

woman 3 who is not the happier for being 

happily married, for which reason one can 

only sincerely hope that the decline of the 

marriage rate is merely a temporary decline. 

These are very matter-oWact days, but I 

cannot help thinking that we should hear 

no more about the decline of the marriage 

rate if only most engaged couples were not 

quite so matter-of-fact, and would believe, 

what is as true to-day as ever it was, 

that marriages are made in heaven. That 

they are celebrated on earth has nothing to 

do with the matter at all. 

Original from 





In my humble 
opinion the fact that 
the marriage rate is 
declining is almost en- 
tirely the fault of the 
woman, The modern 
| woman is assuredly 
less forbearing and less 
patient than was her 
grandmother or great- 
grandmother. She is , 
too j excessively prone 
to indulge in that 
most unpleasant of all habits— from a man's 
point of view — nagging. 

The one thing on this earth a man cannot 
stand is to be nagged at. If, therefore, the 
man is not nagged at, I feel certain he would 
give no cause for dissatisfaction to the woman. 
Compatibility of temper is the one essential 
for keeping man and wife together* Does a man 
ever nag at his wife ? Never* He has some- 
thing better to do + From these premises I there- 
fore come to the conclusion as abave stated. 


To a very large 
extent I think 
the decline in the 
marriage rate is 
due tothediffer- 
e n t standpoint 
the younger 
generation take 
of life as com- 
pared with the 
standpoint of their grandfathers and grand- 
mothers. The younger generation have larger 
ideas ? more varied and wider interests, more 
ambitious ambitions than were those with 
which their fathers and mothers started life* 
When they think of the struggles their 
fathers have told them about their early 
married life, how they pinched and saved and 
screwed and denied themselves almost the 
ordinary necessaries of life to provide their 
children with the means to procure a good 
education, and so on and so forth, they think 
to themselves : M Is it worth while ? I am 
now earning a small income. Have I the 
right to ask a woman to lead the life of self- 
denial that my mother has told me she ha J to 
lead in her earjy married life ? " 

Thej' remember that their mother always 
used to seem to be working. She would sit 
up sometimes far into the early morning 
darning her husband's socks, mending rents 
in her children's clothes, sewing buttons on 
antique shirts, and occasionally — but only 
very occasionally — making a new blouse for 
herself or "turning'' her skirt, in a vain 
endeavour to imagine that, when once it is 
turned, she will have a dress which will look 
almost as good as new. They think of all 
these things, and, having thought about them, 
they say : *' Well, I should like to get married, 
of course } but really it doesn't seem worth it 
for me — or my wife." 

And so the question they had once thought 
of putting to that charming girl who, some- 
how or other, thev feel would sav " Yes M 
were she asked, is never put* And the years 
pass by until they have lost the inclination 
to put it — and that charming girl has lost the 
freshness of youth. 

Looking at the question from this point of 
view, who shall say whether the man is right 
or not to remain unmarried ? I, for one, could 
not reply to it with any degree of conviction. 

Mn BAILL1B REYNOLDS (Author of " X 

Doubt lul Chi racier/' " The Notorious Mitt 

Lisle." etc), 

There are many 
causes for the de- 
cline in the marri- 
age rate. One 
reason is certainly 
to-be found in the 
new gospel of the 
pursuit of happi- 
ness* Happiness 
is one of the words 
almost invariably 
misused — almost 

as invariably as that other word. Love, Whtn 
we talk of happiness nowadays, as a thing 
everybody ought to have, we mean, not happi- 
ness at all, but amusement ; the sort of 
amusement which money buys and leisure 
enjoys. Marriage upon small means is the 
very opposite of this kind of happiness. It 
demands elTort, struggle, discipline, self- 
sacrifice — all the things which the piesent 
age dislikes and affects to despise. 

There is another reason which operates 
among the more thoughtful. The generation 
which preceded us— my parents t the grand- 
parents of the present generation — married, 
as a rule, without reflection. They had 

'Wuamm^r upon means 



which were not enough to educate four 
properly. The results of this are fresh in our 
memories. We desire to be more prudent. 
We desire 3 especially, to be independent — to 
be able to support ourselves and equip our 
children for their struggle in the world. 
When we are young marriage on these lines 
is impossible. We must either sink in the 
social scale — which means renouncing one's 
own cirde wherein one was bom, a thing 
only a few are strong enough to face — or we 
must wait until we are better off. 

The result of waiting often is that the desire 
to marry, so strong in youth, dies down in us. 
We grow more fastidious, more set in our own 
waysj more timorous, more used to do as we 
like. The longer we wait the greater seems 
the risk. It often ends in the refusal of the 
Great Adventure of matrimony. 


A few decades 
ago it seemed to 
be the destiny of 
everyone to get 
married. In New 
England and Old 
England it was 
quite exceptional 
to find a well-set- 
up young woman 
or man over thirty 
who was not mar- 
ried. But many 
things have con- 
spired since that 
time to d i s- 
courage marriage among young people. At 
the present time vast sums of money are 
required to educate the children of the poor 
and improvident, and the number of imbecile 
and insane asylums has increased very much 
faster than the population has increased. 
Taxes are very high, and many young men 
are prevented from getting married on 
account of high rents and the expense of living. 
Young ladies who have been well brought up 
and educated hesitate to leave a luxurious 
home to share the lot of a young man in a 
humble cottage, and I think it is safe to say 
that vast numbers of voung women look with 
disfavour on motherhood and the care of 

When 1 lived at Queen's Gate an old resident 
told me that there were at least thirty-five 
thousand of the finest young women in the 

world in and about Kensington, and that the 
great majority of them would be only too 
glad to get married, and he believed that 
the principal obstacle in the way was the 
expense of keeping up a fairly good home in 

When I was twenty-four years of age I 
went to Boston, Mass., and obtained a situa- 
tion as draughtsman in a machine works. I 
was the only draughtsman employed t and 
one day the men in the shop asked me to 
assist them in a problem of geometry. One 
of the leading men, who was much older than 
myself, said : " You ought to be a very happy 
young man ; you have got the nicest and the 
cleanest job in the place and the highest pay ; 
and, more than all, you are not married. 
Believe me, it is the greatest advantage in the 
world not to be married, therefore look out 
and avoid it if you wish to be happy." A 
fortnight later he introduced me to his 
daughter, who was very pretty, very ladylike. 
and well dressed. He asked me to visit 
them on the next Sunday, but his advice, 
was ringing in my ears and I didn't go. 

Mm. HENRY DUDENEY (Artmr of 

" Married When Suited*" " Miidi Money." etc). 

The fact of the 
marriage rate declin- 
ing is nobody's fault, 
but is a proof of the 
high courage and can- 
dour of our age. It is 
due also to the spirit 
of comradeship which 
is growing up between 
the sexes, and so far 
from being a proof of 

selfishness and degeneracy, as many think, it 
merely points to the growth of idealism. 

In the past the fact of a person being of 
opposite sex and equal social station was 
thought to be a good enough basis for mar- 
riage ; but lovers nowadays demand more 
than that. It really suctvis as if. by a qmrr 
mixture of passionate poetic feeling and clear 
common sense, the present generation is 
arriving at that goal which the Christian 
religion demands ; that l% the sacramental 
idea of an indissoluble marriage. 

The vast change in the position of woman 
also affects the question, and especially to 
practical minds ; but I should always put 
the ideal before the economic as a prevailing 
factor. The latter is topical^ the former 


M I 




In my opinion 
there is little 
doubt that the 
i decrease in the 
marriage rate is 
mainly due to the 
increased cost of 
living, the greater 
love of amusement 
which is such a 
very pronounced feature in the characters of 
the majority of youthful members of both 
sexes these days, and, last but not least, to 
woman having earned for herself far more 
liberty and freedom than the laws of society 
have hitherto permitted her. 

There is, too, I think, a more general feeling 
among members of both sexes that marriage 
does not now necessarily mean to either a 
man or a woman that he or she is doing what 
the world expects of her. I know many 
happy " bachelor " girls, as I know many 
happy " bachelor " men, who are perfectly 
content to remain bachelors — chiefly, I 
imagine, because they have found the state 
of u bachelordom " quite a pleasurable state* 
And having found that it is quite possible to 
be single and happy, they prefer what they 
have come to regard as certain single happiness 
to possible married unhappiness. 

So long as women maintain the degree 
of independence they are allowed to-day, so 
long, I think , will the marriage rate remain 
lower than it was in the days when an 
unmarried girl lived, to a very great extent, 
the life of a recluse. 



The question 
as to why fewer 
people marry to- 
day than was the 
case ten, fifteen, 
or twenty years 
ago seems to me 
one of the most 
difficult in the 
world for any in- 
dividual to end ea- 
vour to answer ; 

I am inclined to think, however, that the 
main reason for this falling off in the number 
of marriages lies in the greater freedom women 
are now allowed. In the days of old Mrs. Grundy 
laid down a hard and fast rule that woman 
must have a very dull time* She was not 
to play any games except those of the most 
sedate and boring kind ; she must learn to 
sew and do crochet work, and do it every day ; 
she must seldom go out alone, and so on and 
so forth. The result was that the unmarried 
girl soon began to feel that she was a sort of 
prisoner so long as she remained unmarried. 
The only way in which she could obtain more 
freedom was, she felt, to marry, 

To-day women are probably allowed more 
relaxations, more freedom, in every way than 
ever before in our history. For which reason 
many of them doubtless feel that as they are 
happy and free enough in an unmarried state 
they would be ill-advised to risk losing both 
by making a mistake in marriage. 

Mn. C N. WILLIAMSON, the welUknowd 
novel Lit. 

I think that 
people marry 
less often be- 
cause the cost of 
things keeps 
going up, and 
even "love in 
a cottage " is 
much more ex- 
pensive than it 
used to be. Poverty seems to be coming 
in at the door unless a chaufTeur can drive 
up to it with some vague, cheap suggestion 
of a motor-car ; and Love stands ready to bolt 
out of the window unless it can be curtained 
with the most charming muslin and chintz. 

There seem to be so many more things in 
the world to want than there used to be, so 
naturally we want them ; and, therefore, it 
takes more courage for a poor man to propose 
to a pretty girl than in days when all novelists' 
had to end their stories with an engagement 
or a wedding. Besides, of course, young 
women have a better chance of finding work 
which is fairly well paid than they had years 
ago ; so they need not marry just for the sake 
of being married. Perhaps, therefore, if 
people are marrying less often, they may be 
marrying more happily ! 

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1*1 U« ClurW 0*1 nm Horilaj. pbuu,. by It. Hifne* Irene Vftnumgh &n< 

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"tlWffi'Umf OF MICHIGAN 


T/ic SOUL 

of the 



HE Soul of the Afridis," to 
translate into its nearest 
English the high-sounding 
name by which the man 
was known, lay prone on a 
slab of rock and gazed 
down into the gorge below. 
He gazed long and steadily, and he sighted 
his rifle with infinite care. He lay motion- 
less, like a figure cast in bronze, and the 
tribesmen watched- him with silent but pro- 
found admiration. 

Away down in the gorge, at its mouth, a 
tiny figure was advancing nearer and nearer. 
Gradually the component parts of this figure 
became more and more distinct to those 
hawk-like watching eyes so carefully following 
it from that slab of rock on the mountain-side 
at the head of the gorge. These component 
parts were a bay horse, a man in khaki riding- 
breeches and a loose shirt, and on the man's 
head a large white sun-helmet. A shadow of 
amusement passed across the watcher's face. 
That helmet was a most excellent target. 

The man who lay there so still and yet so 
keenly alert, " The Soul of the Afridis," as he 
was called, had the advancing horseman 
easily within range. The tribesmen who 
accepted him as their leader did not know 
this, however. To their weapons the horse- 
man was a quite impossible target. 

"The Soul of the Afridis " and the rifle in 
his hands were well mated. Both were perfectly 

by C^OOgle 

effective for the task set them — the destruc- 
tion of that rash horseman taking his morning 
gallop up that lonely gorge. The man whose 
hawk-like eyes followed the approaching target 
was physically superb. On his brown body 
there was no superfluous flesh. Under his 
skin the muscles could be seen like fine, strong 
wires. His bare shoulders would have 
inspired a sculptor to enthusiasm. And the 
weapon in his hands, a new model of a famous 
rifle, was of the very best workmanship. 

The horseman below came closer, and one 
of the tribesmen moved, a sign of impatience. 
For he and the others were beginning to feel 
that there had been enough waiting. They 
wanted to blaze away with their own inferior 
weapons, to make a noise and a show of skill 
and do nothing useful. Just for a moment 
their leader's eyes left the doomed horseman 
and transferred their gaze on the man who 
had moved. He became still again. He 
knew, of course, just as the others also knew, 
that they could blaze away and gratify 
themselves with a display of noise and a 
waste of cartridges, but that it was their 
leader who could kill. 

" The Soul of the Afridis " looked back at 
his prey. Then he fired. Down below the 
horseman stopped, stumbled, and fell. 

It was a long shot, but it had come off. 
A murmur of approval went up from the 
tribesmen. Once more their leader's skill 
had been proved. 

Original from 



Yet had it ? 

It was the horse which had been shot, not 
the rider. For the rider could be seen running 
back to shelter. The horse was kicking and 
struggling as it rolled on the ground. Again 
there was a shot. Again it was the 
horse which was hit* It lay stilK 

The rider ran to shelter in the 
rocks, and as he ran his helmet fell. 
Again there was a shot, but still he 
ran on, apparently unhit. 

"The Soul of the Afridis " spoke. 
It was to the effect that the others 
might blaze away. They began to 
do so with a good will, quite useless, 
since for their weapons the prey was 
out of range. 

There were murmurs of anger when 
it was seen that the Englishman was 

"On that dead horse," said "The 
Soul of the Afridis/' sharply, u there 
is a most excellent saddle, of the 
very best leather and the very best 
make. It belongs to the first man 
who gets down to it*" 

A few hours later, in the full heat 
of the day. a hot, perspiring and 
footsore subaltern reached the fort* in 
the main valley into which led the 
gorge in which he had so narrowly 
escaped death. 

Graham, the officer in charge of 
the fort, saw him coming, and atao 
saw that he was on foot and weary 
guessed what had happened. He, who knew 
the mountains surrounding the Khyber Pass 
like a book, knew that outside the fort one 
always took one's life in one's hands. He 
did not trouble to hide his annoyance. 

" You took your life in your hands, Car- 
stairs/' he said, abruptly, when the subaLern 
came up to him, " and you are luckv to bring 
it back." 

4< But surety we are at peace with these 
scoundrels ? " exclaimed the subaltern, 

Graham, the i^rey-haimL dried up man 
who had immense experience of the frontier, 
smiled, his annoyance relaxing in his amuse- 

** Peace ? '* he said, grimly, with a slight 
lifting of his eyebrows. !1 Why, in these 
mountains there is always war. Officially, 
perhaps, there may be peace, but not in reality. 
Give me the details of your experience. " 

He listened carefully to Curst airs 1 s narra- 
tive, and when he heard that the first two 
shots were so close to their mark he asked a 

question ' Digitized by GoOg I 

" You are sure about the great distance from 
which vou were fired at ? 

"Yes, Why?" 

11 The rifle must have been an accurate 
weapon. That's all. Plenty of these dusky 



gentlemen think they can shoot. But they 
have very inferior rifles," 

" Well, sir, what I have told you is as I 
have said. The shots came from the moun- 
tain-side, but up at the head of the gorge, 
and they were long shots — and very accurate, 
since the first shot my horse under me and 
the second shot him dead as he lay struggling." 

41 I do not think it was an Afridi who fired 
at you/ J said Graham, slowly, 

1 Why ? " asked Carstairs, amared* 

Graham did not trouble to answer him. 
He was annoyed with his subordinate, and 
did not intend to conceal his annoyance. 

" I Jut the most extraordinary tiling is that 
he did not kill you — whoever he was. That's 
enough for you, Carstairs, All that you have 
to remember is this — that you have not been 
given the King's commission to risk your 
life for nothing/ 1 

And Graham turned away from him and 
looked up the valley, puzzled. He who knew 
the Khyber Mountains so well scented some- 
thing strange and unusual, coupling Car- 
stairs's narrative with w r hat he had already 






heard about a leader of the tribesmen known as 
u The Soul of the Afridis/' 

And Major Bruce Graham was far from an 
ordinary Army officer , turned out in accord- 
ance with type and steeped in regulations. 
He had imagination and insight', and knew 
that there in the North- West Frontier 
mountains one may meet with strange 
experiences. But he did not know how strange 
the experience was with which he was on 
the point of meeting, nor how great the 
consequences on his own life to which it 
would lead. All he was thinking of at that 
moment was the possibility of capturing the 
Afridi leader who could take long-distance 
shots with such remarkable accuracy. 

Fort Margaret deserves description. It 
stands solitary and alone 3 an outpost of the 
English power, in a country bleak, inhospi- 
table, and inconceivably cruel. For nowhere 
h the face of Nature more austere than it is 
in the Khyber country, where her bleak 
austerity eats like iron into the very soul. 

Vol, *lvii.-&- 

And in that country there is for an English- 
man something worse than the austerity of 
Nature. In Afghanistan the English power 
was once cruelly and savagely humbled. To 
the men of the hills between Peshawar and 
Kabul, w ha t * h as oec u r red yesterday may 
occur to-morrow. Moreover, since in the 
East time counts for less than it does to 
those who know Western civilization, the 
massacre of Koord Kabul is to them but an 
event of yesterday. So that hatred of the 
English has, in the Khyber Mountains, a real 
hope which keeps it alive. 

Fort Margaret is like half-a-dozen others. 
It is always well provisioned, since no one 
knows when it may have to stand a siege, 
and within it there is a well, so that it never 
lacks water. Every precaution is taken to 
make it safe. The ground around it has 
been cleared , and this clear, rough glacis of 
inhospitable ground extends right up to the 
encircling hills. The smooth, loop-holed walls 
are grim and stern. Those loop-holes, eyes 
which never close, stare always at those grey, 




rocky, treeless mountains, and within the fort 
there is a vigilance which never sleeps. 
Afghan and Afridi alike know it, and both 
hate to know it with that peculiar bitterness 
with which one does hate that which one's 
hatred cannot conquer. 

Yet in that fort, inside the smooth perimeter 
of loop-holed walls and machicoulis galleries, 
there is a court which is a pleasant little garden 
round the deep and ever-springing well. 

It is an extraordinary contrast, the fort 
and the surrounding country and that pleasant 
little gem set in the fort, the tiny garden- 
court round the well. 

And on the night of the third day after 
the early morning adventure, from which the 
subaltern Carstairs had narrowly escaped 
with his life, this contrast was emphatically 
brought out. 

Major Bruce Graham was showing the 
hospitality of Fort Margaret. He sat there, 
wearing the evening clothes of civilization. 
With him sat not his brother officer, as might 
be expected, but two women of his own race 
and rank — his sister Janet and a younger 
woman, Adela Scott, who had been a friend 
of the Graham family for many years. It 
was extraordinary to see two women in that 
lonely outpost, there by their own choice, 
paying a visit to a place which could not be 
said to provide any pleasure or amusement, 
or even danger, since had there been real 
danger they would not have been allowed to 
be there. They presented a most remarkable 
contrast to the ugly, squat, but useful fort, 
standing there in the inhospitable Khyber 
Mountains. They were out of place, where 
only men and men's work were needed, and 
yet it thrilled them to be there in that lonely 
guard-house of the Indian Empire, in that 
difficult and dangerous country where Bruce 
Graham had done so much good work and 
made his name. 

And Graham liked to see them there. 
Not that he went out of his way to say so. 
He was not that sort of man. He seldom 
gave expression to his thoughts and feelings 
unasked, but was glad to see the woman who 
was going to be his wife actually in the hard, 
wild " No Man's Land " in which he had made 
his reputation. In the future it would be 
pleasant for her to have known that country 
of which he had a unique knowledge. If he 
wrote a book on it, as he very likely would, 
she would have actual first-hand knowledge 
to bring to the reading of it. 

Bruce Graham was one of those men to 
whom difficulties present themselves to be 
quietly overcome. 

His wooing had been one of those difficul- 
ties. Adela Scott was of unusual beauty. 
She was tall, slim, and straight as a beech 
sapling. She possessed unmistakable breeding, 
and in her girlhood, before India spoilt it for 
her, a complexion of milk and roses. Men had 
met her in the days when she first came out, 
and gone down before her like ninepins. She 
had refused them one after another, as kindly 
and gently as she could, till at last she met 
Jack Lessing, of the Queen's Hussars, and all 
the world then knew that it was a libel to say 
that Adela Scott was as beautiful as a marble 
statue and as cold. 

So Graham had only been one of the crowd 
of the unsuccessful in those early days. 

But, unlike the others, when refused the 
supreme honour he had remained a friend ; 
and when the terrible scandal came about 
Lessing, and Lessing dropped out of his world, 
he was ready to give the quiet help of his 
steady, persistent friendship. Consequently, 
when in due season Time began to do kind 
work, he slipped again into the position of 
wooer, and eventually won his reward. 

That night, when he and his sister and 
Adela sat together in the garden-court of 
Fort Margaret, he had only just recently won 
it. In fact, their engagement was not yet 
announced. It was, however, to be publicly 
known when in a few weeks' time Graham 
was relieved, and he returned to Peshawar, 
never again to work on the frontier, since he 
was retiring and going home to England. 

So Graham sat there well content. 

He had good reason for his contentment. 
After much patience and waiting and diffi- 
culty, he had won for his wife the woman he 
loved. He was a rich man, for money had 
recently come to him, and he would go back 
to England to enjoy the position which this 
wealth would give him. He had the know- 
ledge that he had done good service in the 
Army. And he had reason to know that his 
surveys of the valleys and gorges of the 
Khyber country were appreciated. He had 
been assured that his service on that diffi- 
cult North-West Frontier would gain recog- 
nition on his retirement. He would probably 
be gazetted colonel. Finally — it was a small 
thing, perhaps, but it was eminently satis- 
factory — plans of his had worked out very 
well, and a few hours ago " The Soul of the 
Afridis" had safely been brought into the 
fort, his capture quietly effected that very 
afternoon without loss of life. 

The successful capture mingled pleasantly 
with thoughts ol; his approaching return to 
Enghind in Grabfun's mind. 




" It is very beautiful out here to-night," 
said Adela, lazily. " We are the centre of 
such a deep silence — all around us the incon- 
ceivably wild mountains, and here we are in 
the heart of this ugly little fort, quite safe, 
quite safe, surrounded by flowers, sitting 
drinking our coffee and watching you, Bruce, 
smoke your cigar — just as it might be in the 
garden-court of some hotel ! " 

" Yes, these few hours at the end of the 
day are sometimes beautiful here, as they 
are to-night, after the heat and dust of the 
day, but only by comparison. As I sit here 
to-night I am thinking. I am standing knee- 
deep in bracken. I am looking out to sea. 
And on my face there blows a cool breeze, 
and on my lips there is the kiss of keen salt 
air, pure and strong and sweet — a hundred 
times more beautiful, Adela, than those cold, 
hard stars and the cruelly savage mountains 
around us which you speak of so romantically 
as * inconceivably wild/ " 

It was a long speech for Graham. 
" Well, to you it is all only too familiar — 
but to me it is all novel and strange and — 

** Well, dear, I've had twenty years of 
India — quite enough." 

" I dare say — hot, blighting sun ; hot, 
dust-laden winds ; a hot, glittering, and 
gaudy heaven and earth — and even here the 
ever-slumbering feud between the conqueror 
and those who bow but do not submit. You 
want to be out of it all and back again in the 
cool, clean life of Home, where the hills are 
carpeted with heather and thyme, and not 
mere wildernesses of bare rocks and arid 
soil. I know what you are longing for, Bruce. 
I understand." 

Thus spoke Janet Graham, with a light in 
her eyes and a quiet but very deep enthusiasm 
in her voice. And she smiled. 

" They have been hard years, Bruce," 
Adela said. " But they have been successful 
— you would not, I think, unlive them." 

It was Janet and not Bruce who noticed 
that though the words were quite sincere, 
there was no " glow " in them ; Janet knew, 
in the privacy of her thoughts, that however 
much he might prize the reward he was 
winning, he was not winning all he sought. 

" I would not unlive them," said Graham. 
" But, now they are over — or wellnigh over 
— I like to think that the sun which has 
dried up and burnt brown this hand of mine 
will know me no more." 

He stretched out the lean and haggard 
brown hand in which he held his cigar, and 
both Janet and Adela fully understood him. 

" Well, at any rate," said Janet, proudly, 
" you are a good man at your job, Bruce. 
You have caught this ruffian who calls 
himself 4 Ihc Soul of the Afridis.' " 

" Yes. You see, I knew the ground, and 
my plans worked out well. But I've not 
seen him yet. It was Carstairs and his 
party whom I had waiting for him, in the 
line I knew he would go, who actually ran 
him in. I'm going to interview him as soon 
as I've finished this cigar." 

The cigar was already a stump between his 

" Oh, whjjfaot wait till the morning ? " said 

" Because I am curious." 

" Curious ? Surely he will be just an 
ordinary Airidi ruffian," said Adela, slowly. 

" I don't think he is an Afridi at all." 

" Not an Afridi ! " exclaimed Janet. 
" Don't be absurd and imaginative, Bruce." 

" I know you have hinted as much during 
dinner," said Adela. " But, surely, though 
this strange, wild country has seen many 
strange things, you don't expect to meet — a 
European ? " 

" I do not understand an Afridi having a 
perfect rifle and using it with perfect skill," 
said Graham. 

And he got up and dropped the stump of 
his cigar into the bowl beside his chair. 

" I sha'n't be very long, perhaps," he said. 
" If you'll wait here, I will come back and 
tell you whether my suspicion has been 
confirmed or proved ridiculous." 

"It will be proved ridiculous," said Janet, 
lightly. " I shall not wait. I've some 
letters to write." 

Of course it* was her business to leave the 
two engaged people alone for the last hour of 
the day. 

" I will wait," said Adela, quietly, " for 
half an hour." 

And Graham walked away to his interview, 
all unconscious that he was going to face the 
greatest temptation of his life. 

Half an hour later he was still interviewing 
" The Soul of the Afridis." Moreover, that 
had occurred which gave him a good reason 
for not wishing to return to the garden-court. 
Five minutes after the expiration of the half- 
hour Adela got up and went to bed. 

" Leave me alone with the prisoner, but 
remain within hearing." 

Graham said this after a long' pause. It 

was not a pause of doubt about the astounding 

fact he discovered directly he entered the 

room. He knew ihax ax once. It was a 





pause of doubt what to do in the face of a 
most extraordinary position. 

The two soldiers, one on each side of the 
prisoner, saluted and stepped back. Then they 
went out > closing the door and leaving Graham 
and " The Soul of the Afridis ** alone together. 

Even thus alone Graham did not know what 
to do. Not unly wm$ he face Ld luce with an 


extraordinary discovery in his x *apft<:ily as an 
officer in the King's service, he was also con- 
fronted with a totally unexpected crisis in his 
own personal affairs. 

And then he did the natural and easy thing. 

11 Sit down , Leasing ;" he said. " Let's talk 
(his matter omt, I m %t i loss to know what 




For a moment " The Soul of the Afridis " 
preserved his impassivity. If he did not 
admit his identity, he reflected, the position 
might be easier than it would be if he did. 

Then he smiled. " Thank you," he said. 
" I'm a little unused to the English language 
after not speaking it for seven years. But 
you will excuse me, perhaps, if I boggle for 
words just at first." 

" Will you smoke ? " asked Graham, 
offering his cigarette-case. 
It was now Lessing's turn to be surprised. 
He had been unpleasantly astonished to 
find that the officer commanding the fort 
was Bruce Graham, a man he had known so 
well in the old life. He had been mildly 
surprised at his recognizing him at once. But 
it was a really extraordinary thing that he 
should treat him with courtesy as an equal. 

" No, thank you. Not just yet. One new 
sensation at a time." 

" You must not be over-surprised at my 

recognizing you, Lessing," Graham began. 

u I was not expecting to find that a man who 

could shoot with such remarkable accuracy 

as you appear to have done was an Afridi. 

To that extent I was prepared. I also see 

that you could have killed Carstairs quite as 

easily as you first shot his horse under him, 

and then with the second shot put the poor 

beast out of his misery. But I should be 

interested to know why you fired at all." 

Lessing gave a sigh of relief. 

" It is a great piece of good fortune for me," 

he said, " to have fallen into the hands of a 

man of intelligence. Few men would have 

seen at once, as you have seen, that I was only 

teaching that young fellow a lesson. I could 

quite easily have shot him and not his horse." 

" But why did you fire at all ? " 

" Had he come much farther he would have 

been in danger. I could not have kept the 

others from what they looked on as their 

lawful prey." 

Graham nodded. Then he lighted a 

" I suppose it is not altogether surprising 
that we should find your hand turned against 
us," he said. " I can understand that you 
hate the men of your race." 

" There have been times when I did so, 
but it would be truer now to say that I am 
indifferent. Seven years ago, when I escaped, 
I buried myself in my own way. I have to 
play my part, that is all." 

" You have disguised yourself most 
astonishingly well, Lessing," said Graham, 
after a pause. " You are the living image 
of an Afridi. Only it just happened that I 

Digitized by v^OOQ IC 

was expecting to find a European, and that I 
knew you very well indeed seven years ago." 

" Yes, I came to these mountains seven 
years ago, which I knew so well even then, 
and know now infinitely better, because it 
occurred to me as a natural thing to do." 

" Yes ? " 

" You see, my knowledge of them had told 
against me. I thought it might as well tell 
in my favour. I knew these people. I knew 
their language and their dialects and their 
ways and habits. I dyed my body brown. 
I became one of them. Having a constitution 
of iron, I exposed myself to all weathers, and 
here I am what you see me — the living image 
of an Afridi, you say. More than that, 
Graham — quite half one." 

" It's extraordinary ! " 

" It isn't extraordinary at all. It has 
been a fine, hard life. I was cut off from my 
fellows. Here I have been at peace. I have 
become a sort of leader. I doubt whether 
there is another man alive a better shot than 
I am, after seven years' practice. It isn't 
very extraordinary, if you think it out. When 
I escaped I had to bury myself somewhere. 
I have done so on the whole very agreeably. 
Had I gone somewhere amongst men of my 
own colour of skin — what sort of a life should 
I have had ? No, it wasn't at all extra- 
ordinary. What is extraordinary is this — 
that you, Bruce Graham, should have 
spoken to me, an outcast, as if I were an equal, 
and have offered me a cigarette. I'll take 
that cigarette now, and listen to your explana- 
tion as to why you have treated as an equal 
— a pariah. Why have you treated me — as 
if I were still — within the pale — when I'm 
not ? " 

As Lessing asked the question, Graham's 
temptation took definite and complete shape. 
He seemed to see it in a flash in all its aspects 
— what he would gain if he yielded to it, what 
he would risk in eventual exposure, what the 
injury to Lessing's life would be, and what 
the injury to another's life also would be ; 
and what appeared most clearly of all was 
this — that he, Bruce Graham, had worked 
hard and earned his reward, and that he would 
be a fool to jeopardize what made that 
reward most sweet. 

" You and I are alone together here 
to-night, Lessing, in this remote fort," he said, 
and he was himself surprised at the calmness 
with which he said it. " I do not wish myself 
to pass judgment on you. That has been 
done. We have a common interest in this 
Khyber country. It would be interesting to 
exchange views," 




He held out his cigarette-case, and Lessing 
took one from it. 

" Let me tell you, Graham/' he said, as he 
lighted the cigarette, " you are in no wise 
wrong in treating me as if I were within and 
not without the pale of decent men. Of 
that for which I was tried and condemned 
I was and am innocent. I say, am still 
innocent, for it would be easier than ever 
for me to be guilty of it now — if it were in 
me to be so." 

And Graham made no answer at all. His 
silence meant that his temptation had gained 
the upper hand over him. 

Lessing looked in his face. It seemed as if 
he hoped for acquittal from this man whom he 
had known well in the old days. But, though 
he waited, it did not come. He shrugged his 
shoulders. Graham just remained silent. 
That was all he need do just yet. He sinned 
as he held out a lighted match to the maa 
against whom he was sinning by simply 
saying nothing. 

All the next day Graham spent alone with 
his great temptation. 

It was so ridiculously easy to gain what he 
wanted. He had just to allow Lessing to 
remain thinking what he thought. He had 
only to say to him, " Look, Lessing, instead 
of my giving you up to the authorities, 
suppose I leave your door unlocked." Or, if 
not that, he might say, " Remain what you 
are, ' The Soul of the Afridis,' and let us 
make a bargain on that basis. Pve full power 
here, and nobody would penetrate your 
disguise except myself." 

All he had to do was not to enlighten 
Lessing. Let him remain in his ignorance, 
and in a few months he, Graham, would be 
out of India and Adela Scott his wife. 

Of course, there was the slight risk that, if 
not at once, eventually, Lessing might return 
to civilization and find out the truth for him- 
self. But one must take a risk now and then. 
And it would be time enough to face the 
unpleasant situation caused by Lessing being 
enlightened when it came. Probably it never 
would come. There were other thoughts also, 
but he brushed them unceremoniously aside. 
The obvious thing to do was so simple. 

Thus Graham communed with himself 
from sunrise to sunset, and he saw quite 
clearly his future happiness within his grasp 
— the clean, honourable life in England, the 
woman he loved his wife. 

" Honourable ? An honourable life in 
England ? The woman he loved — but did 
that woman love him ? " 

3V VlOOij 

These thoughts fought their way forward. 
They struggled for a hearing — and gained it. 

And the heat of the day grew less, and the 
light faded, and Graham and his temptation 
still looked one another in the face. 

" Leave me alone with the prisoner, but 
remain within hearing." 

For the second time Graham spoke these 
words, and for the second time he was left 
alone with " The Soul of the Afridis." 

" Well," Lessing said. " What are you 
going to do with me ? " 

" What would you like me to do with you?" 

" Allow me to escape and go back — to my 
friends. I should have fresh prestige in 
their eyes, perhaps, if you allowed me to make 
my own escape." 

" But, is the life worth going back to ? " 

" Decidedly. The open air of heaven, the 
open face of Nature; a wild life, but, as I live 
it, a clean one — and a man's life, plenty of 
shooting, plenty of hardship, plenty of 

" Nothing would please me better, Lessing, 
than to let you go back — to your friends." 

" Then why not do so ? Naturally, I've no 
anxiety to go back to Peshawar." 

" Unfortunately for myself," said Graham, 
" I am an honourable man. On that chair 
there is a complete set of clothing, the 
ordinary clothes of an Englishman. You are 
about my size, Lessing. Put them on." 

" Very well. I shall feel a bit restricted in 
them, perhaps. But if you think I ought to 
go back to face the music respectably dressed, 
I've no objection." 

" Never mind what I think." 

Graham got up and looked out of the 
window into the darkness. 

Presently he turned round. 

" I have got something to tell you, Lessing," 
he said. " You were surprised last night that 
I treated you as my equal. You know you 
are innocent ; / know also you are innocent. 
The whole world knows you are innocent" 

There was dead silence for a full minute. 

" Look here, Graham," said Lessing, 
harshly, " don't play the fool with me. It's 
bad taste, if it's nothing else." 

But he was trembling. He put his hands 
on the table, leaned forward, and looked 
Graham in the eyes. 

Graham never flinched. His face had a 
dead look, as of a man utterly weary, which 
struck home to Lessing even in that eventful 

" I have the best possible reason for 
wishing I were playing the fool with you," 




said Bruce Graham, in quiet, measured tones. 
" Eut I'm not. Edwards, the colonel of your 
regiment, was the man who did what you 
were punished for. He shot himself a year 
after you disappeared. He had his own good 
reasons for making his exit, poor devil, but he 
did the square thing by you in leaving con- 
fession and proof that he, and not you, was 
guilty in that business of selling secrets and 
maps of this North-West Frontier to the 

" Edwards ! " exclaimed Lessing. " That 
tall, fine-looking man, one of the handsomest 
men and the finest soldiers ever commissioned 
in the Queen's Hussars ! It's difficult to 
believe, Graham." 

" All the same, it's true. That fine Roman 
nose of Montague Edwards was not above 
scenting the source whence Russian gold 
would flow like water for value received. He 
tapped it frequently and heavily, and when 
suspicion fell on you — the strongest circum- 
stantial suspicion, you know, since it was you 
who had spent years in exploring this country 
and your hand which had actually drawn the 
maps — well, he kept silent." 

" What did he do it for ? " asked Lessing. 

" Do you remember Mrs. Edwards ? I can 
remember her quite well, one of the most 
beautiful women who ever graced, or cursed, 
Anglo-Indian society — and certainly one of 
the most extravagant. Nothing was ever 
good enough for her, if money could buy 
better. Whether she had the money or not 
never seemed to trouble her. She kept 
Edwards in debt, poor fellow, every year of 
his life, from the day she married him." 

" So that was his reason — and you can 
find pity for him ! What about the innocent 
man who suffered ? And another thing, 
Graham, what about the good woman whose 
heart was broken that that bad woman might 
go on and flourish ? You may remember 
that Adela Scott loved me and believed in 
me, right up to the end." 

" I onlyspoke of Edwards in a general way," 
said Graham, quietly. " Of course there is 
not the slightest excuse for him. But he has 
gone to his account. We know he allowed a 
tissue of lies to pass for the truth — but to 
have been allied to that woman would have 
been a pretty heavy handicap upon any man's 
honour. There was some sympathy with 
him because he kept silent when you were 
condemned, not for his own sake so much as 
for his wife's." 

" I want to ask you a question, Graham," 
said Lessing, after a pause. u Why did 

Digitized by ^OOglC 

you keep silent about all this last night ? 
Merely for your own sake, or for someone 
else's ? " 

" Merely for my own sake." 

u But why should my remaining in ignor- 
ance of my innocence being known profit 
you ? " 

" Because I am engaged to be married to 
Adela Scott." 

And between these two men there was an 
absolute silence, which neither seemed to 
know how to break. 

" It seems to me," said Lessing, slowly, at 
last, " that you were in imminent danger last 
night, Graham, of becoming a man as bad 
as Edwards, without his excuse." 

" I was -" 

" For you to think of jeopardizing your 

future peace of mind — and your honour — 

like that, how greatly you must love Adela 

Scott ! " 

" That is obvious. Also I am on the eve 
of retiring and going home to England. That 
made the prospect of marriage with the woman 
I love additionally sweet to me. In England 
I thought all I wanted would come in time." 

" I can understand your love for her. 
Mine for her is the one thing I have found it 
hardest to forget." 

" And have you forgotten it ? " 

" No." 

" Neither has she." 

" How do you know that ? " Lessing 
demanded, sharply. 

" I do know it. Isn't that enough ? " 

"Yes. Where is she?" 

Graham took hold of Lessing's arm and led 
him to the window. From it the garden- 
court round the well could be seen. 

" Look," he said, " there sit Adela and my 
sister Janet. As you see, my sister is getting 
up. She is going to write her letters. That 
is what she has done at this time every night 
since their visit here began, so that Adela 
and I may have the last hour of the day 
together. Go out to her, Lessing, and take 
my place. It really belongs to you." 

Lessing turned to Graham. He was going 
to speak, and then he found he could not do 
so. He just held out his hand, which Graham 

" And what about you, Graham ? " he 
asked, stopping in the doorway and turning 

" Oh, I shall go on serving my country now 
instead of retiring and going home," said 
Graham, steadily. 

And thc-n Lessing went out — to Adela. 


By Our Readers. 

WE have on more than one occasion invited our readers to contribute to our 
pages, and often with the happiest results, of which the stories abont children 
in the present number are an excellent case in point. We wish to try the 
experiment of extending this idea, and begin by inviting our readers to send us anecdotes 
from their own knowledge or experience on any of the subjects given below. To help 
Aem in their task we give examples of the kind of contribution we should be gkd to 
receive. Any anecdotes found suitable for use will be acknowledged and paid for. 


AWKWARD situations are always turning up in ordinary life, and they come so suddenly 
and unexpectedly that those involved generally lose their heads, and are either 
stricken dumb or very possibly make matters worse by doing or saying quite the wrong 
thing. The gifted individual who never loses presence of mind in such an emergency is greatly 
to be envied. Can any of our readers send us something as ready-witted as the following? — 
The Rev. Clinton Locke, a well-known American out of his study and listened at the head of the stairs, 
divine, was reading one afternoon in his drawing-room Hearing nothing below, he called to his wife : — 
when his wife espied coming up the steps a certain " Has that horrible old bore gone yet ? " 

Mrs. Jones, who was her husband's particular pet The lady was still there. Mrs. Locke, however, was 

aversion. quite equal to the emergency. 

The doctor bolted upstairs, leaving his wife to meet " Yes, dear," she answered. " She left nearly an 

the caller. Half an hour passed, and Dr. Locke came hour ago. Mrs. Jones is here now." 


THE following story, which has, we understand, the merit of being true, is perhaps an 

extreme instance of singularity, but no doubt there are many thousands of 
cases within the knowledge of our readers which are equally interesting, although 
possibly not quite so odd : — 

A man whom all his friends looked upon as a con- joke. I have come into a fortune of fifty thousand 

firmed old bachelor surprised them by suddenly taking pounds. Will you marry me?' 4 Well,' she said, 

to himself a wife. Some time after the wedding one ' if you really mean it, you must give me time to think 

of his acquaintances asked him how it had happened it over.' ' No/ I replied. 4 No time like the present, 

that he had changed his condition with such haste. I have come into a fortune of fifty thousand pounds. 

" Well" said the married man, " the story is a some- Will you marry me?' ' Well/ she said, * yes, I will/ 

what odd one. Perhaps no one was more surprised So we went to her house to see her father and mother, 

at it than myself. If you like, I will tell you exactly and the very next week we were married. And that 

how it came about. I chanced to come into a fortune is how I came to change my state." 

of fifty thousand pounds, and one day, when I was in " Well," said his friend, " that is the most extra- 

S»I fridge's, I got into conversation with a lady behind ordinary way of getting married I have ever heard of. 

the counter, when all of a sudden an irresistible impulse Now, let me ask you, how has it turned out ? Are 

came over me, and I found myself, without knowing you happy together ? " 

how or why, saying to the girl : 4 1 have come into a " Yes-s-s-s-s," said the other, not without some 

fortune of fifty thousand pounds. Will you marry slight touch of hesitation. " Yes ; but I sometimes 

me ? * The girl stared, laughed, and said : * Get away wonder whether I should not have done better at 

with you ! You're joking.' * No/ I said, * I never Harrods'." 


IFE is full of the strangest and most incredible coincidences, of which the following 
instance, sent to us by Mr. W. J. Farmer, Redruth, Cornwall, is a fair example. 
Can you send us one equally curious ? — 
About four years ago, in the month of September, I The following year, in the month of August, I made 

travelled from Falmouth to Dublin on the Lady Martin, the same journey on the same steamer, and was much 
a steamer belonging to the British and Irish Steam surprised to be accosted on board by my schoolboy 
Packet Co., whose vessels travel from London, touching friend of the voyage before, and still more astonished 
at Southampton, Plymouth, and Falmouth on the way. when he informed me that our former fellow-passenger 
I formed a pleasant acquaintance on board with a youth from Kent was also on board. Neither of us had 
returning from school, who had joined at Plymouth, communicated with each other since our previous 
and a gentleman from Sittingbourne, in Kent, who journey, and the chance of three of us undertaking the 
had travelled on the vessel from London, and who was journey the next year, and a month earlier, on the same 
undertaking the trip for the sake of the beneficial effect day, without any arrangement whatever, seems to be 
of a sea- voyage. He merely landed in Dublin and took so remote that if put in a novel the occurrence would 
the next steamer back, which left within half an hour of be regarded as very far-fetched. I think it would be 
his arrival in Dublin. difficult to equal this experience. 

EADERS should send their anecdotes to The Editor, The Strand Magazine, 
Southampton Street, Strand, London, W.C., marking their envelopes in the top 
left-hand corner with the word " Anecdotes." 

Vol. xlvil-9. 




Life c) 

Bij O -HeivriJ 

viii.— Ulysses and the 

O you know the time of the 
dogmen ? 

When the forefinger of 
twilight begins to smudge the 
clear-drawn lines of the Big 
City there is inaugurated an 
hour devoted to one of the 
most melancholy sights of urban life. 

Out from the towering flat crags and apart- 
ment peaks of the cliff-dwellers of New York 
steals an army of beings that were once men. 
Even yet they go upright upon two limbs and 
retain human form and speech , but you will 
observe that they are behind animals in 
progress. Each of these beings follows a 
dog, to which he is fastened by an artificial 

These men are all victims to Circe. Not 
willingly do they become flunkeys to Fidoj 
boys-in-buttons to bull-terriers, and toddlers 
after Towzcr. Modern Circe> instead of 
turning them into animals, has kindly left 
the difference of a six-foot leash between 
them. Every one of those dogmen 
has been either cajoled, bribed , or 
commanded by his own particular 
Circe to take the dear household 
pet out for an airing, 

By their faces and manner you 
can tell that the dogmen are bound 
in a hopeless enchantment. Never 
will there come even a dog- catcher 
Ulysses to remove the spell. 

The faces of some are stonily set. 
They are past the commiseration, 
the curiosity, or the jeers of their 
fellow-beings. Years of matrimony, 
of continuous compulsory canine 
constitutionals, have made them 

callous. They unwind their beasts from lamp- 
posts, or the ensnared legs of' profane pedes- 
trians, with the stolidity of mandarins 
manipulating the strings of their kites. 

Others^ more recently reduced to the ranks 
of Rover's retinue^ take their medicine 
sulkily and fiercely, They play the dog on 
the end of their line with the pleasure felt by 
the girl out fishing when she catches a sea- 
robin on her hook. They glare at you 
threateningly if you look at them, as if it 
would be their delight to let slip the dogs of 
war. These are half -mutinous dogmen , not 
quite Circe-ized, and you will do well not to 
kick their charges, should they sniff around 
your ankles. 

Others of the tribe do not seem to feel so 
keenly. They are mostly youths , with gold 
caps and drooping cigarettes, who do not 
harmonize with their dogs. The animals 
they attend wear satin bows in their collars ; 
and the young men steer them so assiduously 
that you are tempted to the theory that some 
personal advantage, contingent upon satis- 
factory service^ waits upon the execution of 
their duties. 

The dogs thus personally conducted are of 
many varieties ; but they are one in fatness, 
in pampered, diseased vileness of temper, in 
insolent, snarling capriciousness of behaviour. 
They tug at the leash tracts ou sly, they make 
leisurely, nasal inventory of every door-step* 
railing, and post. They sit down to rest 
when they 
choose; they 
clumsily into 
open cellars 


t he 

dogmen a 
merry dance. 





These unfortunate dry-nurses of dopdom, 
the cur-cuddlers, mongrel-managers, Spitz - 
stalkers, poodle-pullers, Skye-scrapers, dachs- 
hund-dandlers, terrier -trailers, and Pome- 
ranian-pushers of the cliff-dwelling Circes 
follow their charges meekly. The doggies 
neither fear nor respect them. Masters of 
the house these men whom they hold in 
leash may be, but 
they are not masters 
of them. From cosy 
corner to fire-escape, 
from divan to dumb- 
waiter, doggy's snarl 
easily drives this two- 
legged being who is 
commissioned to walk 
at the other end of 
his string during his 

One twilight the 
dogmen came forth as 
usual at their Circes* 
pleading, guerdon, or 
crack of the whip* 
One among them was 
a strong man, appa- 
rently of too solid 
virtues for this airy 
vocation. His expres- 
sion was melancholic, 
his manner depressed. 
He was leashed to a 
vile white dog, loathsomely fat, fiendishly 
ill-natured, gloatingly intractable toward his 
despised conductor. 

At a corner nearest to his flat the dogma n 
turned down a side street, hoping for fewer 
witnesses to his ignominy. The surfeited 
beast waddled before him, panting with 
spleen and the labour of motion. 

Suddenly the dog stopped. A tall, brown, 
long-coated, wide-brimmed man stood, like 
a Colossus, blocking the sidewalk and 
declaring :— 

" Well, I'm a son of a gun ! " 
" Jim Berry ! " breathed the dogman, 
with exclamation points in his voice, 

u Sam Telfair," cried Wide-Brim again, 
" give us your hoof ! " 

Their hands clasped in the brief, tight 
greeting of the West that is death to the 
hand-shake microbe. 

u You old fat rascal ! " continued Wide- 
Brim, with a wrinkled brown smile ; " it's 
five years since I've seen you, I've been in 
this town a week, but you can't find anybody 
in such a place* r , dl, you dinged old married 
man, how are things ? " 

Something mushy and heavily soft, like 
raised doughy leaned against Jim's leg and 
chewed his trousers with a yeasty growl. 

M Get to work/' said Jim, " and explain 
this yard -wide hydrophobia yearling you've 
thrown your lasso over. Do you call it a 
dog, or what ? w 

" I need a drink," said the dogman, 
dejected at the re- 
minder of his old dog 
of the sea. " Come 

Hard by was a 
cajL 'Tis ever so in 
the big city. 

They sat at a table, 
and the bloated 
monster yelped and 
scrambled at the end 
of his leash to get at 
the cafi cat* 

" Whis ky," said 
Jim to the waiter, 

14 Make it two," said 
the dogman, 

11 You're fatter," 
said Jim, (i and you 
look subjugated. I 
don't know about 
New York agreeing 
with you. All the 
boys asked me to 
hunt you up when I 
started. Sandy King, he went to Klondike. 
Watson Burrel, he married the oldest Peters 
girl. I made some money buying beeves, 
and I bought a lot of wild land up on the 
Little Powder. Going to fence it next fall. 
Bill Rawlins, he's gone in for farming. You 
remember Bill, of course — he was courting 
Marcella — excuse me, Sam — 1 mean the lady 
you married, while she was teaching school 
at Prairie View. But you were the lucky 
man. How is Missis Telfair ? " 

" S-h-h-h 1 " said the dogman, signalling 
the waiter, 4I Give it a name," 
i( Whisky," said Jim. 
" Make it two/ 1 said the dogman. 
" She's well," he continued, after his 
chaser. " She refused to live anywhere but 
in New York, where she came from.^ We live 
in a flat. Every evening at six I take that 
dog out for a walk. It's Marcella's pet. 
There, never were two animals on earth, 
Jim, that hated one another like me and 
that dog. His name's Love kins. Marcella 
dresses for dinner while we're out. We 
eat tabble dqffrjgjftffoftf one of them, 







never/' said 
Jim, " I seen 
the signs, but 
I thought they 
said c table 
de hole/ I 
thought it was 
French for 
pool tables. 
How does it 
taste ? " 

l * If you're 
going to be in 
the city for 
awhile we 

win — " 

(i No, sir-ee. 
I'm starting 



for home this evening on the seven -twenty- 
five. Like to stay longer, but I can't/ 1 

i( I'll walk down to the ferry with you/* 
said the dogman. 

The dog had bound a leg each of Jim and 
the chair together, and had sunk 
into a comatose slumber. Jim 
stumbled ^ and the leash was slightly 
wrenched. The shrieks of the awak- 
ened beast rang for yards around, 

li If that's your dog/' said Jim, 
when they were in the street again, 
" what's to hinder you from running 
that habeas corpus you've got 
around his neck over a limb, and 
walking off and forgetting him ? " 

" I'd never dare to/ J said the 
dogman, awed at the bold proposi- 
tion, "He sleeps in the bed. I 
sleep on a lounge. He runs howling 
to Marcella if I lock at him. Some 
night, Jim, I'm going to get even 
with that dog. I've made up my 
mind to do it. I'm going to creep 
over with a knife and cut a hole in 
his mosquito-net so that they can get 
in to him. See if I don't do it ! n 

** You ain't yourself s Sam Telfair. 
You ain't what you were once. I 
don't know about these cities and 
fiats over here. With my own 
eyes I've seen you stand 

the Ti Hot son boys in 
Prairie View with the 
brass faucet out of a 
molasses barrel. And 
I've seen you rope 
and tie the wildest 
steer on Little Powder 
in 39 1-2." 

" 1 did, didn't I ? " 
said the other, with a 
temporary gleam in his 
eye. " But that was 
before 1 was dog- 

" Does Missis Telfair 
? " began Jim. 

" Hush ! " said the 
dogman, "Here's 
another emfiJ* 

They lined up at 
the bar. The dog fell 
asleep at their feet. 

"Whisky," said Jim. 

" Make it two," said 
the dogman. 

il I thought about 
you," said Jim, M when 

I bought that wild land* I wished you were 
out there to help me with the stock." 

" Last Tuesday/* said the dogman ) " he 
bit me on the ankle because I asked for 

cream in my 

coffee. He alwavs 



"You'd like Prairie 
View now/' said Jim. 
11 The boys from the 
round-ups for fifty 
miles around ride in 
there. One corner of 
my pasture is within 
sixteen miles of the 
town. There's a 
straight forty miles 
of wire on one side 
of it." 

** You pass through 
the kitchen to get to 
the bedroom/' said 

dSfrWriSl faOCWFFKR," 






the dogman, " and you pass through the 
parlour to get to the bathroom, and you 
back out through the dining-room to get 


into the bedroom so you can turn around 
and leave by the kitchen. And he snores 
and barks in his sleep, and I have to smoke 
in the park on account of his asthma. M 

" Don't Missis Telfair ? " began Jim. 

" Oh, shut up I" said the dogman. " What 
is it this time ? " 

il Whisky/' said Jim, 

" Make it two/' said the dogman. 

" Well, I'll be racking along 
down toward the ferry/' said 
the other. 

" Come on, there, you 
mangy, turtle-backed, snake - 
headed, bench-legged ton-an' 
a-half of soap - grease ' 
shouted the dogman, with 
new note in his voice and 
a new hand on the leash. 
The dog scrambled after 
them, with an angry whine 
at such unusual language 
from his guardian. 

At the foot of Twenty-third 
Street the dogman led the 
way through swinging doors. 

" Last chance/' said he, 
11 Speak up." 

"Whisky," said Jim. 

" Make it two/' said the 

41 1 don't know/' said the » im: swift 

ranch man , " where I'll find 

the man I want to take 

charge of the Little Powder 

outfit. I want somebody I 

know something about. 

Finest stretch of prairie and 

timber you ever squinted 

your eye over, Sam, Now, 

if you was " 

" Speaking of hydropho- 
bia," said the dogman, " the 
other night he chewed a 
piece out of my leg because 
1 knocked a fly of! Marcella's 
arm. * It ought to be cau- 
terized/ says Marcella. I 
telephones for the doctor, 
and when he comes Marcella 
says to me : * Help me hold 
the poor dear. Oh, I hope 
he got no vims on any of 
his toofies when he bit you/ 
Now, what do you think of 
that ? " 

They walked on to the 
ferry. The ranchman stepped 
to the ticket-window. 
Suddenly the swift landing of three or 
four heavy kicks was heard, the air was rent 
by piercing canine shrieks, and a pained, 
outraged, lubberly, bow-legged pudding of a 
dog ran frenziedly up the street alone, 
" Ticket to Denver/' said Jim, 
" Make it two," shouted 
the ex-dogman, reaching 
for his inside 


O l Flu ■ i 


More Sayings of Strand Children. 

Illustrated Vy Dorothy ^Vkeeler. 

CHILD of four years was 
having tea at a house where 
she had never been before 
and heard a young man fre- 
quently addressed at the 
table as " Jamie." While the 
meal progressed she observed 
him apply what she considered an unneces- 
sarily thick coating of his favourite jam to a 
biscuit he was about to eat. In her native 
Doric she asked him, " Jamie, would na } ye 
be better o' a palin' (fence) roon that ? " — 

Mrs. M AUG A RET H. Fatrweatheh, Newly It House, Foveran, 

* The Sayings of Marjorie ,p 
some quaint sayings of a 

The article on 
reminded me of 
dimi native 
nephew of mine. 
He is now some 
two or three 
months short of 
five years of age. 
About a year 
ago his mother 
took him into 
church one 
Sunday morn- 
ing, All went 
well and he was 
as good as gold 
until a hymn 
was started. 
He evidently 
thought he 
ought to join in, 
because after a 
second or two he 
started singing 
in a loud voice 
the only hymn 
he could re- 
member at such 
short not Iceland 
that was a little 
grace he says 
after tea, I may 
say the effect 
was disastrous when at the end of the verse 
he went on all alone for fully a minute, 
+i Thank God for my good tea ; oh, thank 
God for my good tea." 

Mr. j. Pwil. Ldnghi, 56, Long Acre, W-C 

" Digitized by \j> OO QIC 


Once when visiting the " Zoo " with our 
little friend Patricia, we spent a long time in 
the lion house. Suddenly Pat looked up^ 
earnestly, and asked^ " Uncle John, if a lion 
were to eat me, should I get to Heaven ? " 
" Why, certainly." " Well — but — uncle, 
would I get right straight there ? " " Yes, 
of course." " Oh," with a sigh of relief, 
" that's all right, I thought I might have to 
wait till the lion died." 

She took great interest in theological 
subjects j which may have been due to the 
fact that her grandfathers were both clergy - 
men and came of ecclesiastical families. Here 
is one of her observations. One night when 
quite undressed and ready for her bath, she 
was rushing gleefully up and down the nursery. 

Suddenly she 
stopped and 
cried, "Do you 
know, nursie, if 
Adam had not 
sinned we should 
all be going 
about like this 
now ? " 

Mrs. Stevenson Mac- 
nab, Criehton Man«, 
Ford, Midlothian, 

Our next-door 
neighbours en* 
gage occasion- 
ally the services 
of an elderly 
who, to put it 
mildly, lacks 
both beauty and 
charm. Still, we 
were somewhat 
taken aback on 
one occasion 
when Dorothy 
burst into the 
dining-room and 
cried out, " The 
old geyser next 
door won't talk 
to me/' Our own charwoman, whom 
Dorothy simply addresses as fl Missus," has 
no choice in the matter. That excellent 
creature has been invited at one time or 
another t^j{ftfc%|'ffi§ffi to her own child the 





whole of Dorothy's numerous toys. She 
received a severe set -back , however, on the 
occasion of her last visit. As she was leaving 
die expressed the hope that Dorothy would 
be a good girl. Such familiarity could not 
be tolerated in silence, and like a flash came 
the response, '* And you be a good missus/' 

Mr. fli^o. A, Vank, 27 1 Lady^niith Avenue. Sheffield 

One day we were expecting a stranger to 
stay with us, a 
delegate to some 
meetings. My 
daughter Wini- 
fred watched the 
preparation of 
the guest's room, 
then import- 
antly brought 
her favourite 
doll and tucked 
it into the bed, 
saying, gravely, 
"You k n o w, 
mother, the 
lickle ole gen- 
tleman will be 

Mrs, N. Hups well, 

j&7, Portland Strut, 


We think our 
Joyce has a taste 
for music. One 
day as I was 
putting her to 
bed she said, 
14 Oh, mother j do 
play your violin 
again to-night*" 
"Oh! Here's 
thought I, "Certainly, dearie!" I said, 
" Do you like the violin ? " u Well," she 
answered, w 1 do like to hear Jerry sing.* 1 
Jerry is our dog and the possessor of a 
remarkably fine tenor voice, and he had 
been turned out the night before because of 
his mistaken impression that solos were duets. 

Mrs. Bertha Havtoup, Bel Air, EMesmere Road, Stockton 
Heath, Warrington. 

My little girl became very devoted to a doll 
with china head and arms and real hair, which 
she named Ida, but by some unfortunate 
accident it was broken by a servant, to her 
great grief. This happened when her grand- 
mother was very dangerously ill, and she had 
heard how necessary it was to keep her per- 
fectly quiet and not let her hear anything that 

Digitized by GO< 


might trouble her. So, in the midst of her sobs, 
she said, u Don't tell grandmother that Ida is 
broken, for it might be too much for her/' 

Mrs. Day* Grtosnn, Htafb^m, Norfolk. 

Here is a story of my little son, Jackie 
was very fond of a neighbour's cat, which 
used to frequent our garden very often, to 
his father's great disgust, and was always 
very cross when it was driven off. One day, 

however, when 
the cat had 
scratched up 
some young 
plan ts,his daddy 
pretended to be 
very angry, and 
said to Jackie, 
more to tease 
him than any- 
thing else, 
11 Jack, next time 
I find that cat 
in my garden off 
comes his head 
and on goes a 
turnip." Quick 
as thought came 
the answer, 
"That must 
have happened 
to you some 
time, dad." 
Needless to 
say, dad felt 

Mr*. H. R. Couch, m. 

Decoy Road. Newton 

Abtot, S. Devon. 

A dear little 
friend of ours 
named Ger- 
trude, on being told that we should all wear 
while garments in Heaven, asked, " What— 
everybody ? IJ And on being assured it would 
be so, she remarked, with profound disgust, 
" Father will look silly in a white coat." 

Once when Gertrude was asked about the 
sermon, she replied that " It was very interest- 
ing—it was about Lot's wife, and she turned 
a somersault," 

Miss L. T*ioMi k 5QN T The Lions, Vetitnor. 

It was after a history lesson and Geoffrey 
was being questioned by his governess as to 
why Kin^ John .should have been so vexed at 
losing the Great Seal in The Wash. He 
replied, " I suppose he wanted its fur to make 
the Queen a coat." 

Mrs. K* M. Mi^j^jj^fC&l^|Rp*d, l^tecstw. 



Tke Birds of Fashi 



INCE the House of Lords' 
Commission sat in 1908 to 
investigate the effect of 
Fashion's fancies upon the 
world's supply of rare birds, 
the " Plumage Question/' as 
it is called , has been very 
much to the fore. It has been debated from 
a score of platforms and in the correspondence 
columns of the Press , yet there can be no 
doubt that the merchants themselves know 
little about the birds for which there is 
a demand, and that the newspaper contro- 
versialists often know less. It is proposed 
in this paper to say something about a few 
of the very many birds for which there is a 
trade demand; and to point out how far it 
may be possible, by domestication, the creation 
of reserves^ or the establishment of close 
seasons, to protect every species standing in 
need of protection. 

Before writing about the birds themselves 
a few words must be given to the Committee 
for the Economic Preservation of Birds, 
which came into being some nine or ten months 
ago with the object of uniting both the users 
and the lovers of birds in an endeavour to 
help all species found to be in danger ^ without 
hindering the trade so far as it seeks to take 
a moderate and reasonable toll of species that 
are in no danger of extinction. A committee 
similar to the London one has been estab- 
lished in Paris, and the question of calling one 
together in Berlin is under consideration. The 
whole quest ion of preservation, r eserva t i on , an d 
domestication is one of extraordinary interest, 
and it promises to solve a great problem , 
because, as a rule, birds assume their 
choicest plumage in anticipation of the breed- 
ing season, and shed it naturally when that 
season is over, so that it should be possible 
in many, perhaps in the majority of cases , 
to take a bird's most attractive plumes year 
by year without injuring it in any way. It 
is unnecessary to remind the reader that the 
Dutch farmers have been doing this with the 
ostrich for very many years past, and have 
built up a trade worth two million pounds 
a year* 

It is quite within the bounds of possibility 

that within a very few years bird farming will 
be practised in the tropics, because the least 
civilized of men respond to the possibility of 
making money; and, whatever our personal 
views may be, it cannot be denied that the 
demand for the skins and feathers of birds 
is an ever-increasing one, and is following 
the growth of national wealth. 

With Committees for Economic Preserva- 
tion in the great capitals of Europe, and with 
a trade willing to accept their findings 
and give prompt effect to them, we may 
look in a little time for the end of reckless 
killing and the recognition of the simple truth 
that a live bird, capable of reproducing its 
species and renewing its plumes, is faT more 
valuable than a dead one. 

A bird admitted on all sides to be in danger 
of extinction is the goura or crowned pigeon 
(No* 1) of the Indian Archipelago and New 
Guinea. The beautiful compressed crest on its 
head has created a dangerous trade demand, 
but unfortunately the absence either of the crest 
or of the existing fashion would do little to 
save the bird, because it is large, so very good 
to eat ? and so extremely stupid. It frequents 
dense forests, lives on berries , seeds, and grain, 
and lays no more than two eggs in the nest 
it builds in some tree. The goura pigeon 
is said to roost fairly close to the ground, 
within easy reach of a stick or a stone. 
Happily the bird can he provided with a new 
habitat- Even now it is to be found living 
in English aviaries, and the writer saw a fine 
pair for sale 'in Co-vent Garden only a few 
months ago, the price asked for them being 
ten pounds. It should be quite easy to 
establish reservations wherein these birds 
might thrive, but apart from such a step as 
this, their only salvation lies in the fact that 
a considerable part of New Guinea is still 
very sparsely inhabited. 

Hird-lovcrs arc greatly concerned about the 
future of the great paradise family, for the 
birds of paradise are found only in New Guinea 
and the adjacent islands, and the exquisite 
plumage of the male has undoubtedly proved 
an unfortunate possession. It will be remem- 
bered that. New Guinea belongs to Great 
Britain 0IIW4B», ni and Holland, Holland 




owning the western part and the remainder 
having German ownership in the north and 
British in the south and south-east, Great 
Britain and Germany have prohibited the 
export of paradise birds, Holland permits it 
subject to certain restrictions, but in a country 
that is neither civilized nor fully explored it 
is one thing to make laws and quite another 
to enforce them. Several species of the para- 
dise family come abundantly to the market. 
The minor 
(No. 2) is one of 
the most at- 
tractive. It is 
about fourteen 
and a half j| 
inches long. 

it will be remembered that they have been 

brought to the Zoological Gardens in London. 

It is extremely difficult to estimate the 

and the dominant colour notes 
are green, gold, and blood-red. 
It is found in the north and 
western part of New Guinea and 
<n the adjacent islands of Mysoh 
It frequents the summit of the 
tallest trees, and is only seen at 
daybreak and sunset, though its 
sharp cries can be heard at other 
times of the day. Living largely 
on fruit and insects, it is said to 
have become polygamous through 
the pursuit of the male birds and 
the fortunate neglect of the sober- 
plumaged female. 'I he late Dr. 
Alfred Russel Wallace, after visiting 
New Guinea, expressed the opinion 
that the minor bird of paradise 
could be acclimatized, and that it 
would live in such places as the 
Great Palm House at Kew, or in 
the tropical garden at the Crystal 
Palace^ now, alas ! a thing of the 

Many other species cf amazing 
beauty belong to the greal para- 
dise family, but it is unnecessary 
to refer in detail to them here. 
For all their beauty, paradise birds 
are hardy ; they are related in the 
bird world to our own crows, and 



NO. 2.— 1HF MP-Ojt U1RD CV PAKAl>Ii 




full effect of trade demands upon the birds of paradise, but it seems 
clear that they are not found In anything like the old numbers 
in their more familiar haunts. We do not know how far British and 
German restrictions are opera live^ or to what extent the Dutch 
regulations are observed. It is said that the natives, who, by the 
way> have from time immemorial used paradise 
feathers for ornament, do not kill the female 
bird, and spare the male until it has 
assumed complete adult plumage, a 
development that takes place 
about the fourth year after 
the bird has mated. If 
this be true, there 

yostsT? **% 

* ■** * 



should be 
no danger of 
e x termination, 
and an interesting ex- 
periment in acclimatizing 
the birds has been made in the 
island of Little Tobago, where 
Sir William IngTam released 
fifty of the Apoda birds of para- 
dise, which after some years 
are thriving, though it is im- 
possible to say whether their 
numbers are increasing. Mr. 
Collingwood Ingram^ who 
visited the island of Little 
Tobago a year ago, has picked 
up moulted paradise feathers 
which were shown to some Lon- 
don merchants and declared 
to be equal in beauty and in 
quality to those taken from 
birds that have been killed. 
There is a suggestion here that 
it is possible to extend the 
habitat of the paradise family 
and to collect plumes without 
injury to the bird, and the ques- 
tion is worthy of consideration. 

NO. 4.— THE GfcKAT 


Pheasants of a kind unknown to our woods 
arc very largely used for their plumage. The 
Amherst pheasant (No, 3) boasts an extra- 
ordinary range 1 of colouring, 
including r dark blue, green, 
crimson vrllow, pdd, and 




nuptial plumage is ripe, and 

in this way the heron colony 

may suffer seriously , the young 

being unable to look after 


It is worth noting 
that both the great 
white egret (Herodias 
alba) (No, 4) and 
the little egret 
(Herodias garzetta) 
are found all over 
the world ; the 
former was fre- 
quently seen in 
Essex during 
the n i n e- 
teenth cen- 

young are 
reared. In 
many of 
the white 
herons are 
shot by 
hunters as 
soon as the 


MO. 6.— THK Aki.^'S 



one was shot in Cambridgeshire as late as 
1872. It breeds freely in Spain and in Mace- 
donia, and has been found nesting in the 
South of France and in Sicily, Perhaps it 
would come again to this country if we had 
the swamps and fens of old time, but wherever 
there is high cultivation the great white 
egrets and the lesser egret too, can be no more 
than passing visitors. The little egret has 
been found all over the South of Europe, 
North Africa, Asia Minor, Persia, India, and 
China, For many years, in the last-named 
country, the priceless osprey plumes were 
made up into small brushes and sold for the 
equivalent of a penny* It is on record that 
a little egret was killed in Yorkshire in 1840, 
and there is no doubt that, given the proper 
conditions, a great stretch of swampy ground 
with an abundance of fish and frogs f both 
egrets could be kept in a modified confine- 
ment. Experiments tried in various parts of 
the tropics go to suggest that either egret 
will live in captivity and will assume nuptial 
plumage, but down to the present it will 
neither mate nor reproduce its species. 

Experts are of 
opinion that more than 
seventy-five per cent, 
of the osprey plumes 
that reach this coun- 
try from South 
America have been 
taken from birds killed 
just after the breed- 
ing season, or are 
plumes that have been 
moulted and picked up 
by the men who go 
about the flooded 
country in boats at the 
proper season of - the 
year and earn a living 
by collecting the shed 
trophies of the larger 
or smaller egret. 

In Paris a reward 
of four hundred pounds 
awaits the first man 
who can domesticate 
the egret on French 
territory, while in 
Berlin five hundred 
pounds is waiting for 
the owner of the first 
egret colony domesticated on German soil. 

Yet another bird that seems quite capable 
of responding to the fullest demands of com- 
merce is the common peacock (Pavo cristatus) 
(No, 5), which is found throughout the whole 

NO, 7. — THE LVStli BIRD 

of India, even at a height of six thousand 
feet above sea-level, and breeds, according 
to the part of the country in which it lives, 
at any time between April and October. 
Eight or nine eggs are laid, and the birds 
are hardy. As is well known to those who 
have kept peafowl in England, or have seen 
them frequently in parks and public gardens, 
the peacock moults its magnificent train in 
the autumn and begins to grow another in 
the spring, the feathers improving in quality 
year by year. The natives of India do not 
like to see the bird killed , and it is seldom 
shot, save by sportsmen who desire to eat it. 
The drastic and absurd Notification that 
became effective in India in 1903 prohibited 
the export of peacocks 1 plumes, to the great 
loss of thousands of poor men who derived 
a little income from gathering the shed train. 
The result of the Notification has been to 
create a large smuggling industry, while the' 
harmful green parrot, which must be destroyed 
to save the crops, is left to rot where it falls, 
though its feathers have a distinct commercial 
value. To-day the peacocks 1 abandoned glories 

can only be exported 
by those who do not 
mind making false 
declarati ons , Peacoc k 
farms have already 
been established in 
Europe, and another 
variety of peafowl, the 
white peacock j has 
been reared with extra- 
ordinary success in 
the South of France. 
It is said that some of 
the best of these birds 
are worth three or four 
pounds a year to their 

The Argus pheasant 
(No. 6) is found in 
Malay, Sumatra, and 
Siam, and for many 
years it was snared 
because its cunning 
always availed to keep 
it out of gun-shot. The 
Argus can use its wings 
as a peacock uses its 
tail ? and is an extremely 
stately bird. 
A bird that used to come m small quantities 
to the feather market, but is now preserved 
as strictly as possible by the Government of 
New South. jy^es^js^hjBjLyrf .bird (Menura 
superba) {Ntfi-'jJlJ x -w, dot^ftWti'kppear to be 


found anywhere else in the world, and is ex- 
tremely shy and difficult to approach. Living 
in the thick brush on the hillsides, it is generally 
more anxious to _^^m-g- *c mm-^x 

use its feet than 
its wings, The 



lyre-shaped tail begins lo 

grow in March, is complete 

in June, and is shed after 

September j so that it would 

seem to partake of the nature 

of a nuptial adornment. The 

hen lays two eggs and the 

young are said to be born blind* 

The lyre bird is often heard 

when it is not seen, and in the 

old days dogs were trained to drive 

it to a tree, where it would remain 

until the hunter could come up 

When one bird had been killed the 
beautiful tail of feathers put in the hunter's 
hat would attract other birds, for the lyre 
bird seems to be full of curiosity, and is said 
to have great powers of mimicry. Nobody 

The iUuiirati&ns in this mrtfcfo art fiwm $k&i$s. by A* Ct'n tract, Pan's. . 

will regret the action of the 
Government in protecting a 
bird which, owing to its re- 
stricted habitat, can 
never be a legitimate 
object of trade. 

To return to the birds 

of paradise, it may be 

added that the P B Rudolphi 

and the P. Alberti are so rare 

that expeditions have been sent 

to secure species for museums 

or private collections, P. 

Rudolphi (No, 8), known as 

the blue bird of paradise, has 

been found of late by scientific 

expeditions j and the value of a skin has 

accordingly somewhat decreased, On the 

other hand, P + Alberti (No. 9), the bird with 

the two extraordinary streamers that issue 

from the back of the head, is now thought 

to be extinct, and there are not a dozen 

specimens known in the world's museums. 

It may be said that, so far as investigation 
has gone, the demands of commerce could be 
met in the great majority of cases without 
the destruction of bird life, and it is to this 
end that the Committee for the Economic 
Preservation of Birds must direct its energies 
from London, Paris, and elsewhere, relying 
upon the best scientific evidence for its facts, 
and upon the merchants themselves for giving 
effect to the findings based upon the know- 
ledge obtained. 


Tne series or articles under the above 
title will be continued next month. 







Illustrated by lreyer Evans. 


Being of a hopelessly hopeful temperament James Bright says : " Everybody in the world is 
good— but nobody knows it, except me/' 

James is a manufacturer and patentee of cooking utensils. At thirty-nine he is extremely wealthy, 
but — here is the thorn in his roses— while he is impressed by a rich man's duty of expenditure, his 
sound, bright, and sensible wife, Catharine, cannot overcome her habits of economy. They live in a 
little Hampstead house with two cheap maids, and employ a jobbing gardener. " This is not my duty/' 
says James as he looks around him ; " my duty is to circulate money, to prosper trade, to beautify 
charming women." But Catharine won't be beautified ; she won't be expensive* James gives her a 
blank (signed) cheque-book- Virtuously she refuses to use it. Cods I what a dilemma for a 
conscientious fellow I 

No one sympathizes. When he talks to his worldly friend, Edmund Tonbridge, about the 
difficulty, Tonbridge laughs. James on beautifying women causes Tonbridge's tongue to cleave to his 
cheek. How James hates this ribald attitude of a ribald and suspicious world which is so good really, 
and will not believe it ! 

The Brights' near neighbours at Hampstead are a widowed Mrs. Hunter and her daughter 
Eva, a sweet young girl whom James would like to beautify and make happy as part of his scheme 
of things. 

He has a great and good idea. Having just established new branches in Oxford, Bristol, 
Birmingham, Manchester, and Bombay, he will rightly tax each'branch by making it provide a luxurious 
home for some needy— and charming — woman, to whom James will feel as an uncle. The first object 
of this quest he finds in Gwen Raymond, a girl travelling from Paddington to Worcester — James being 
bound for Oxford — to take an uncongenial situation. Tonbridge has seen James off and observed the 
girl. James installs her — explaining to her about the stupendous goodness of the world — in a 
house at Oxford. 


HE Bristol Adventure had in 
it graver elements. 

She was easily found, and 

it was patent to a male eye, 

even to an eye so pure as 

that of James, that she was 

worth all that an attractive 

woman should have, but that whether she 

was worth all that a good woman should have 

was another question. 

Knowing, however, the deep-rooted good- 
ness of the whole world, mere surface quibbles 
as to a bye-law did not trouble him. 

Her name — or a name which served, at 
least — was Maggie Fields, and James found 
her looking into a shop window, with evident 

After accepting a hat from the benevolent 
stranger, which he offered with the perfect 
simplicity which, he believed, should meet 
every case, she lunched with him, and they 
heard each other's stories. He believed hers, 
and she reserved her opinion. 

Tuesday morning saw her established in a 
villa on the outskirts of the town. 

She preferred a yacht to either car or 
horses, and James made arrangements for 
the purchase of one ere he left her. 

A brief interview with his manager was all 
that he could snatch for business at Bristol. 

Tuesday midday, then, saw him on his way 
to Birmingham. 

He found Her here, in a tea-shop, eating 
pastry, very young, and obviously requiring 
a guiding hand. James was accustomed now 
to opening his errand, and he did so with 
ease and grace added to his habitual simpli- 
city. He learned that she was a millinery 
hand in a big Birmingham establishment, 
that her people were Irish and lived in 
Dublin, and that her name was Nora Patrick. 

She had no one to guide or to advise her in 
the city, so that he convinced himself that 
his protection conferred, not only the comforts 
and delights which such a girl should have, 
but a very red moral benefit. Her tale of 
the temptation:! offered,, the snares and the 




gins set by the male assistants at the place 
which employed her, curdled his blood. 

He put her into a furnished flat, engaged a 
competent maid, gave notice— in the capacity 
of uncle — of her leaving, at the shop where 
she had been em ployed , told her all about the 
goodness of the world s exacted a vow of long 
daily letters and careful conduct, promised to 

come sDon and often, left a standing order 

for her at a garage, and returned to town for 

his lunch engagement on Wednesday morning, 

He was not tired, but exhilarated, by his 

long and busy week-end. 

All the way up he did 
highly satisfactory accounts. 
They were pleased to see 
him at the Gracechurch 
Street office i matters having 
become acutely congested 
during his absence. James 
received reports, issued 
orders, hurled himself .at 
his telephone, coined a 
good deal of money, 
and told the man- 
ager that a most 
important lunch en- 
gagement prevented 
his doing more work 
that day. 

"But," he said, 
as he brushed, par- 
ted, and slightly 
oiled his hair — itwas 
Nora who had sug- 
gested, even prettily 
insisted upon, a new 
style — before the 
mirror in his room, 
"after to-day I must stick 
deuced hard at it now. 
Money's got to be made, 
Morton ; money — has — 
simply — got — to — be — 

It was one o'clock. He 
gave a critical eye to the 
set of his coat and ran 
out into the street. Here, 
leaping into a taxi-cab, he 
gave the order for the 
nearest flower-shop ; then 
for the stores in Bedford 
Street. At the flower-shop 
he bought an armful of 
loveliness — roses, carna- 
tions, camellias, and great 
sprays of fern. - 

He created an impres- 
sion when he entered the grocery department 
of the Stores. Eva looked at him, wide- 

James gazed back at her confidently. His 
task of the last few days had not been so 
difficult as he had anticipated, women not so 
suspicious, and he had hopes of the world. 

Eva was a^gjfrai from 



" Goodness, what flowers ! For Mrs, 
Bright ? " 

" For you/' replied James. <£ Where shall 
we lunch ? " 

Eva didn't know, Eva was all blushes, 
bewilderment, almost Suspicion* He recog- 
nized the dread element hovering about her, 
with a pang, 

u You would like somewhere quiet ? " he 

" Oh ! w screamed Eto, with a disappointed 
gasp; '* a band, please" 

So they went to Frascati's. 

" May we drink champagne/' he asked, 
" to celebrate our first lunch together ? " 

Eva just gurgled. 

So James ordered a bottle of George 
Gouletj than which there is no better, and he 
went on saying to himself : — 

" What a lovely thing a woman's laugh is ! 
Just a gurgle 'cos she's going to be greedy ! " 

" I hope it will not be our last lunch 
together/' he said to Eva, 

Privately one may suppose that Eva hoped 
so, too, though she replied w : ith something 
quite grievously compatible with Suspicion, 

and for the presentation of which this lunch 
was the occasion. 

First of all he induced Eva to talk — in the 
intervals of loud music— about dress. She 
said many pretty, vain, silly, girlish things 
which pleased James very much, ami then 
they spoke of Catharine. 

£t If only you could get Mrs, Brigh; tc 
wear "said Eva, and paused. 

" I can't get her to wear anything/ 
replied James, ambiguously, " Pve tried." 

" She would look so very handsome in 
really good clothes/* Eva added. 

Li She would, indeed/' said James, fer- 
vently* " I think she is the handsomest and 
finest woman I have ever seen. But she is 
very sensible, you know," 

" Surely/' said Eva, " beauty and good 
sense can ally ? * J 

The remark seemed so clever that he looked 
at her, admiringly, and replied : — 

M Well, they appear to do, sometimes," 

At this Eva gurgled until the band drowned 
her captivating noise. 

In the next interval — they were approaching 
the pectus Mtlba— James returned to the 

compliment. "It 
was, for instance, a 
very clever and sen- 
sible idea of yours 
to make that scarf 


It was a very long lunch , not only because 
of the many dishes, but because they talked 
so much* James had to lead round tactfully 
to the subject of the ninon scarf and its 
reward,, which lay in his inner breast-pocket, 

for my wife. I am afraid it gave you a 
great deal of trouble," 

" Not at all/' said Eva, politely. 

" There is no need for Catharine to get her 
clothes cheaply and to victimize her friends,'* 




James pursued. " I hope you exacted/ ' he 
put it playfully, " a high fee ! " 

" Oh ! " said Eva, " what one does for a 
friend " and paused. 

" The fact is/' said James, " I know 
Catharine offered you nothing. A little 
present, now, when a friend takes so much 
trouble for one — would be only right " 

" Not at all," replied Eva, again. 

" In fact," said James, disregarding her 
courteous negatives, l< I made up my mind to 
ask you, as Catharine gave you nothing, to 
accept a small token of gratitude from me." 

Eva murmured. He could not catch what 
she said, but was, somehow, confident that it 
did not resemble " Not at all." 

He pursued, " I should be far more com- 
fortable if you would.'* 

" In that case," said Eva, " of course " 

and paused. 

He was drawing from his inner breast- 
pocket the velvet case. 

" That's it ! " said James, quickly, opening 
the case under screen of the floral decorations 
on the table, and shutting it again. 

"Oh!" Eva murmured. "Really! Of 
course I couldn't ! " 

" Why not ? " James asked, earnestly. 

Eva admitted that she did not know. He 
told her all about the goodness of the world, 
and the evils of unfounded Suspicion. 

" Look at me," he said, almost plaintively, 
" and tell me why you should hesitate over 
taking my gift, which you have earned." 

Eva looked at him wide-eyed. James wore 
a suit of light-grey flannel, a black tie, and a 
pinkish shirt, with which his face blended, 
pink and good. His blue eye was Paradisaical. 
Only in the new hair-parting was the slightest 
hint of sophistication, and that, like the 
parting of the previous ways, was Eve's 
work ; it was not from the inner man. On 
the other hand, James hardly looked his age, 
which was thirty-nine — so Eva said : — 

" If you were twice as old, perhaps I should 

not feel " And once more she paused, 

in the way she had, pregnant with significance. 

" Must a man be old to be trusted ? " 
James asked, again, plaintively. " May not 
a youngish man be as good as an old one ? 
Why should he not be better ? He has had 
less time." 

" That is true/' Eva pondered, playing 
with her flowers, and looking dreamily 
delicious over them. 

The offering still lay between them on the 
table, shadowed decorously by flowers. 

" Yoju will be kind enough to accept this ? " 
pleaded James. 

Vol. xivii.-ia 

The champagne was in Eva's head, and in 
her liquid eyes, and her pretty voice, when 
she thanked him, and hid the case in her bag, 
and gurgled over what mother would say if 
she knew. Eva opined that the lady would 
at least be most surprised. 

James said, stolidly : — 

" You can't help that. People are always 
surprised at everything. They are incorri- 
gible. * It seems in the blood. Everybody, 
for instance; expects evil of everybody else, 
and when they don't find it, they are privately 
surprised. Yet, when they do, they are 
publicly surprised. The world is full of these 
silly, surprised people, and nothing you or I 
do or leave undone will help 'em. Poor 
beggars ! " 

" You are the funniest man ! " cried Eva, 
alluring him by another gurgle. 

" It is not I, my dear," he replied, " but 
the rest of the world." 

" You must not call me ' my dear/ " said 
she, very properly. 

" Very well," said James ; " I beg your 

Eva was sorry, and after a moment gave 
him permission to call her anything he liked. 
She regretted that so gorgeous a lunch should 
be over, and lured James to stay away from 
his office for a matinie. 

It seemed to him that all Suspicion had 
faded from her mind. She would not, how- 
ever, go home with him, but insisted that she 
should be given a quarter of an hour's start. 
The dreadful caution perturbed James afresh. 
She also related to him the story which she 
should give her mother concerning her long 

" Having met Maudie — my old school 
friend, who married well — at the Stores, she 
made me come home with her to lunch, and 
gave me all these be-eautiful flowers." 

Gurgles choked her voice. 

James would have detained her for a brief 
speech on the simplicity of perfect truth ; on 
the right of every person — being innately 
good — to independence of action ; on the 
purity of humanity ; on the effect of the 
sunlight of reason upon a groping world 

But Eva pulled her hand from his, and 
fleeted down the subway at Charing Cross. 
Bidden to wait a quarter of an hour, James 

When he reached home he found Mrs. 
Hunter in his hall, her arms full of flowers. 
Catharine lis.ened to her story. 

" . . . married very well," Mrs. Hunter was 
saying ; " oh, very i She must have done, 

as y^M^R^ flowers 



like these, to give away in such abundance. 
A most extraordinary girl, Maud was, too, 
my dear Mrs. Bright. You would never 
believe ! I once forbade Eva to continue the 
acquaintance. People never actually said 
anything, but I feel sure things were not 
at all as they should be. However, she's 
married, and married well, and Eva says she 
was dressed very quietly, just grey, with a 
pinkish blouse and a touch of black some- 
where, and a perfectly plain straw hat, so 
she may have toned down." 

Through this thick atmosphere of sus- 
picion James fought, as it were, his bitter 
way, and stood beside his wife. 

They turned to him with acclaim, and 
showed him the flowers. 

" Directly Eva came in with them, ,, said 
Eva's mother, " I said, ' My dear child, what 
is the use of all those here ? Mrs. Bright, 
who keeps rather a better table, might, 
perhaps, care to take them from us.' So, 
though Eva was really quite aggrieved, Mr. 
Bright, I brought them round. Your wife 
says she would be glad to have them. Was it 
not a fortunate thought of mine, and are they 
not beauties ? " 

" They are very nice/' said James, looking 
from Mrs. Hunter to his wife " but I do not 
think, Catharine, dear, that we should rob 
Miss Eva of her flowers." 

In Catharine's hand was her large, leather, 
housekeeping purse. She opened it. 

" Mrs. Hunter is kindly going to let me 
have them cheap, as they cost her nothing. 
Let me see," she said, with an air of hesita- 
tion ; " shall we say, perhaps, two shillings ? " 

" Ample, my dear — thanks," said Mrs. 
Hunter, handing the flowers over. Then she 
went away, briskly, reiterating that it had 
been a fortunate idea. 

James was washing his hands when Catharine 
came up to hear all about the week-end. 

" Was it pleasant ? " 

" Most pleasant, my dear ; thank you." 

" And do you feel really satisfied with 
things at Birmingham ? " 

" I feel more satisfied about Birmingham 
than I ever felt about the London business." 

" And Oxford ? And Bristol ? " 

" And Oxford, and Bristol, my dear." 

James sat down on his bed to unlace his 
boots, and put his feet into old pumps. 
Catharine occupied his basket-chair, looking 
very sweet, sound, sensible, and womanly, as 
she put her wifely questions. 

" Did you need your dress-clothes, after all?" 

" Yes," said James ; " it was a good job 
we packed 'em." J fcj 

" Ah, well," said Catharine. " Then that 
shirt must go to the laundry. Are you ready, 
dear ? " 

" Nearly," replied James, hanging back. 

" I must go and see to the pie, whether you 
are ready or not, I'm afraid, my dear," said 
Catharine, rising. As James opened the 
door for her she kissed him again, and he 
thought what a good wife she was. 

Then he went and hid the two new shirts 
he had bought in Bristol and Birmingham for 
wear in connection with the Maggie and Nora 
affairs, in his office-bag ; and when he had 
done this, he thought, suddenly, of what he 
had been going to say to Eva about living 
frankly and fearlessly. But he excused him- 
self after a moment's consideration, saying : — 

" I am only killing Suspicion." 

So he left them there, to be taken away 

Catharine, slightly flushed with late 
exertion, it seemed, had lentil soup, a beef- 
steak pie, and a milk-pudding for him. 
Bottled-beer and lemon-squash were provided, 
also. In the centre of the table uprose an 
erection of nodding roses, carnations, camel- 
lias, and great tufts of fern ; and she, at the 
head of his table, had tucked into the front 
of her white blouse two big, crimson flowers, 
deep-hearted, and heavy scented. When the 
inexpensive house-parlourmaid had creaked 
away with the soup-plates, James leaned 
over the table, and said, almost with a crack 
in his voice : — 

" If only you had asked me to buy you 
flowers, instead of robbing that poor young 
girl ! If only you would sometimes let me 
buy you flowers for yourself ! These all look 
so nice ! " 

" And only two shillings ! " cried Catharine, 

James drank gall again, and spoke no more 
till towards the close of the meal, when 
Catharine said, patting her flushed cheeks : — 

" Cooking dinner has made me so hot ! " 

" Why did you cook dinner, my dear ? " 

" I have sent that girl off," replied 
Catharine. " I discovered that she had given 
away those nice sandwiches ! Heaven knows 
what else she wasted ! I sent her away at 
once, bag and baggage, without a character, 
without notice. I told her she was lucky to 
escape like that." 

" Oh ! " said James. 

After a night filled by many troublous 
dreams James awoke very early to a poignant 

thought, and he voiced it instantly. 

Innl* trOl I r Ur MILMIbMN 



" Catharine, did you really ? " 

When he had awakened Catharine, he asked 
her again. She said, " Really what ? " 

" Send Dorothy Dormer away ? " 

" I did," replied Catharine, shortly, and 
fell asleep. 

James lay awake. 

It was still early, however, when she rose 
vigorously, dressed vigorously, and went down 
to cook breakfast in the absence of Dorothy 
Dormer. James's morning cup of tea came 
up just as usual, for Catharine was so excellent 
a wife that you could have found no fault 
in her. 

At breakfast the husband was depressed, 
but the depression met with no response of 
subdued mood from her, although a woman 
called upon to endure without a cook might 
well have been excused for it. When he 
began at last to touch upon the subject, she, 
sound and smiling, from behind the coffee- 
pot, answered : — 

" I shall manage quite well, my dear. 
You must not worry about me." 

" I shall not," said James, simply. " I am 
thinking of Dorothy Dormer." 

Catharine's smooth brow became overcast. 

" Young, poor, good-looking," enumerated 
James. " Cast adrift with no helping hand. 
My dear, have you no idea as to where she 
was going ? " 

" I had not," said Catharine, firmly. 
" You might ask the recipients of her 
generosity with our household supplies." 

The sarcasm was heavy, but, contrary to 
his wife's expectation, it had the effect of 
brief sunshine upon James. He finished his 
toast, found his gloves and straw hat, took 
to himself the brief-case that was partner 
in a guilty secret, kissed Catharine good-bye, 
and expressed a sense of gladness that she 
thought she could manage comfortably. She 
walked with him to the garden gate, and 
waved good-bye. James took the turn for 
the station, but, once out of her sight of vision, 
digressed to the line of shops that supplied 
his household. 

First he sought the grocer, and going 
immediately and simply to his point, said : — 

" Good morning. Our cook has left." 

" So I heard, sir, from our young man," 
replied the grocer, discreetly, and with a great 
air of reserving his opinion. 

James rested his brief-case on the counter. 

" I should like to see your young man." 

" Certainly, sir," said the grocer ; " cer- 
tainly. But I should wish to assure you, 
before the interview — in case the same should 
be of a painful nature — that I have always 

found him upright, dignified, self-respecting, 
honourable in all his dealings, and courteous 
in all his ways. During the eight years our 
young man has been with us I have felt not 
the slightest hesitation in entrusting him to 
the confidence of our clients, with the dealing 
with their orders, and, sir, with the characters 
of their maidservants. His father came to 
see me only yesterday — being a most respect- 
able man, and will be very sorry to hear of 
this — regarding the possibility of a partner- 
ship, and ready with the premium. I fear 
this rumour you have heard, sir, will go far 
to wreck his career, an<5 that the con- 
fidence " 

It was here that James managed to stem 
the grocer's speech, and assure him that no 
rumour had been afloat, no confidence 
betrayed, no character wrecked, and that 
the young man in question was, he was 
sure, one of the best and straightest in 

" I should be ashamed to entertain any 
kind of suspicion of anyone," James explained. 
" Everybody in the world is really good, 
only I've never met anyone yet who knew it, 
except myself." 

The situation losing its promised poignancy, 
the grocer, with a breath of relief, summoned 
therefore the young man who had been with 
him for eight years. 

James opened courteously with " Good 
morning. Our cook has left, as I infer that 
you know, as you call for the orders. I wish 
very much to find out the young woman's 
whereabouts, as her departure came on me 
as rather a shock. I was very sorry indeed 
to hear, on my return home yesterday, that 
she was gone. I can think of no way of 
tracing her save by asking people who may 
have been her friends to help me." 

The young man had listened to this with 
a very successful appearance of respectful 
credulity. The grocer, his superior, had 
assumed some facial admiration for his 
customer's kind heart. Thus questioned, 
the young man answered : — 

" Miss Dormer met me, sir, just outside 
last night, and told me she was intending 
to find another situation at once. Her 
whereabouts I cannot tell you, but the bakei 
next door might know more." 

" Thank you very much indeed," said 
James, hurrying out. 

The grocer looked at his young man, and 
his young man at the grocer. 

" Poor young girl ! " said the grocer. " She 
is well away from him. And him as meek- 
looking as you please. 53 




41 I only hope she went in time/' replied 
the young man, 

** I can feel for Mrs. Bright/' said the 
grocer, li though a good wife makes a bad 

James was putting questions to the baker 
next door. 

The baker could not give Miss Dormer's 
address, but thought she was certain to bo 
applying at a registry office in Highgate, 
where, he believed, she always arranged her 
posts. He wrote down the address. 

u Thank you very much/' said James, 
hurrying away. " 

The baker went behind the shop to tell 
his wife, 

James travelled by tube to Highgate, 
found the registry office, and inquired for 
Miss Dorothy Dormer. 

Such a name was on the books. In fact, 
they knew her fairly well, 

" What time will she be here to-day ? " 

She had been and gone. No ? they could not 
say what time she would be in to-morrow 
exactly. Between ten and twelve was usually 
her time. Yes, it was possible she might 
look in again this morning, it being now 
only eleven o'clock. 

James sat down, in a row of mistresses 
seeking maids, to wait, On the opposite side 
of the room, a hostile regiment, sat maids 
requiring mistresses. He waited a long time 
with exemplary patience. Now and again 
a cook from the hostile regiment, who had 
summed him up as a nice master, would 
leave her place and attempt to engage with 
him, but firmly, though courteously, he 
declined the offers. 

At twelve o'clock she had not come. At 
half-past twelve she had not come. 

14 1 will look in again to-morrow in the hope 
of finding her," said James, going to the desk. 
He paid five shillings, passed the row of 
ingratiating cooks, and fled out, hotter than 
he had ever been in his lite. 

He went to Gracechurch Street. 

" Late again," he said, extenuatingly, to 
his manager, fl but I'm awfully busy out- 
side nowadays. Most awfully busy." 

" Shall I send your secretary in, sir ? " 

44 Certainly," said James, passing into his 

But when she appeared with a notebook 
and pencil for dictation he sent her away again 
for half an hour, for there on the top of the 
pile that she should have answered lay three 
very personal-looking letters in feminine 
hands. How delicately, how reverently, yet 
how eagerly James touched and opened these 

missives written from his three charming 

He read Gwen's first. 

Dear Uncle, — Oxford is very dull without you. 
When shall you come again ? 

But though Oxford is dull, what a lovely time 
Gwen is having ! Read r — 

At £ o'clock a.m. (positively not till eight, for the first 
time in her life) Gwen stretches out her lily hand and 
rings the bell bv her bedside. (It is the first time she 
has ever had a bed room -bell to ring t either !) One of 
her two nice maids comes and draws up her blinds and 
brings her tea and toast, and letters— if there were any 
letters, only horrid uncle won*t write. 

At nine o'clock Gwen has dressed* very slowly, in 
linen, and goes down to such a nice breakfast. At 
eleven she saunters out into the High and changes her 
library books, and buys silk stockings, and chocolates, 

and all sorts of madly expensive things. At one 
o'clock she Lunches daintily. All the afternoon she is 
rowed upon the river by a waterman. 

Jealous, uncle ? 

Oli ! if uncle were again the waterman ! 

Tea is in Gwen's garden, eaten in a hammock, 
from such a pretty table, Gwen has been buying more 
china, 'Spensive. 

Cross, uncle ? 

In the evening she reads or sews or dreams in her 
hammock till dinner. Over dinner she is a glutton. 
She just guzzles. 

Shocked, uncle ? 

And Gwen is spending lots of money. And she 
would like a pony -cart — tandem, please — and to have 
lessons in driving ; and will uncle come down soon and 
arrange these pressing small matters ? 

And did uncle remember to |*ust the Worcester 
letter, and to tell the Worcester p:ftt -office to send any 
letters for Gwen at such-und-sueh an address to be 
sent to her sic Oxford ii>te;id ? 

n^fcrawwicHiGAN GWEV> 



And SJaggie's : — 

M¥ DEAR old UNCLE (I don't think),— Bristol's 
not the same place without you. But yours affection- 
ately is having a very nice old time, all the same, and 
spending lots of cash, thank you. 

The yacht will soon be ready, they say. I went 
to look at her this morning, and she' will he such a 
beauty. I want her cabin upholstery to match my 
eyes, but I don't know what colour they are, really. 

Come and decide, Your affectionate Maggie. 

Nora's remained* 

My dear Mr. Bright,— (Tor I cannot call you 
Bi uncle * T — it seems so strange). I must thank you vVry 
much again for all your kindness, I am enjoying life 
very much, and the flat is so comfortable. 

But I want to see you again. When will you 
come? It seems ages since 1 saw you, though it is 

desk. " I have important private corre- 
spondence to attend to first.'* 

She went, James, before his own private 
typewriter, typed a letter, making two 
carbon copies. 

One may see by this that he was perfectly 
impartial, and that all appearance of emotion 
was but tribal. 

MY dear Girl,— I was very pleased to find your 
letter waiting for me when I arrived at my ofhee this 
morning. It was charming to know that you were 
thinking of me and wished to see me again. I am 
delighted to think that you are happy. 

It was delightful, too, to find how simply and 
naturally — as a good girl should — you took ine, at my 
own showing, on . , . , It was the most encouraging 


only hours. Please take me up to London with you, 
when you are here again, and show me everything. 
Yours very sincerely, Nora. 
P. S.— How's the parting ? 

James leant back, and murmured, " * Oxford 
is dull without you.' * Bristol's not the 
same without you/ f I want to see you 
again ' " 

He may be pardoned for rising at this 
juncture and going to look at himself in the 

His secretary knocked and entered, to 
know if she should take dictation before 
going out to her lunch. 

" Go ! Go ! ** said James^ returning to his 

experience in a somewhat trammelled life. Remembei 
always, my dear, that you are good, and I hat everyone 
else is good, and from good people only good things 
caii come — and what a world we shall get ! 

In reply to your question, I shall very soon come 
and see you a^ain, and do all that you ask* You will 
get a wire one week-end announcing my imminent 
arrival, and then how pleased you will be I And how 
pleased I shall be, my dear child i 

Have you plenty of money f If not, write to me 
for a cheque. 

Your very affectionate, JAMES Bright. 

Having typed " Friday/' " Monday/' and 
** Tuesday ?> into the spaces left vacant for 
the dates on which Gwen, Maggie, and Nora 
had displavedci iftftltf l- admirable simplicity, 




James put each duplicate into an envelope, 
addressed them, smoothed his parting, pulled 
down his waistcoat, smiled at the mirror, and 
went out to post the letters on his way to 

There were a new pinkness in his cheek, a 
new vivacity in his carriage, a new splendour 
in his eye. Appearing thus, he met Edmund 
Tonbridge as he stepped into the Holborn 

" I thought this was about your time," 
said Mr. Tonbridge, pleasantly. " Come and 
lunch with me." 

" Certainly not," said James ; " you must 
lunch with me." 

" Still spendthrift," murmured Tonbridge. 
" Still lavish. Well ?" 

So he accepted James's invitation. 

They sat down to steak and lager ; Ton- 
bridge regarding James — his pinkness, his 
healthiness, his firm-fleshed face and simple 
eye, and the verve with which he disposed of 
food and drink. 

" Well," said Tonbridge, quite suddenly, 
after they had spoken of the markets for 
some while, " I am not often surprised, but 
you — you astound, you dismay, you outrage, 
you stun me." 

James sent for a second steak. 

" Yet," said Tonbridge, on consideration, 
" murderers eat before their execution. It is 
on record that they make good breakfasts. 
Why not, then, you ? " 

" My dear Edmund ! " replied James. 

Tonbridge shook his head at him. 

" You hadn't time to tell me, the other 
day at Paddington, whether the bracelet 
pleased her ? " 

" I think she was awfully pleased, really," 
replied James, smiling reminiscently, " though 
she didn't show it much. I suppose girls 
always demur a bit, first ? " 

" If they know their job," said Tonbridge, 
looking so worldly that James rebuked him 
by a slight frown of distaste. 

It must have been the frown of distaste 
which sent Mr. Tonbridge into a fit of mellow 
laughter. When he had controlled it he 
asked : — 

" And the girl in the train ? Was she nice ? " 

Again James smiled, reminiscently. 

" I really must thank you, Edmund," he 
exclaimed, with honest gratitude, " for the 
pleasure of that acquaintance." 

" Perhaps," said Tonbridge, " you saw her 
as far as Worcester ? " 

And he became abominably mellow again, 
meriting the second frown of distaste with 
which James met the suggestion. 

" I persuaded her," he replied, sternly, " to 
get out at Oxford." 

A silence followed this, during which James 
addressed himself to the second steak. The 
silence continuing, however, he glanced at 
Tonbridge, to meet his friend's stunned look, 
fixed full upon him. 

" Yes, Edmund ? " he inquired. 

" Your appetite ! " said Tonbridge. " Your 
health ! Your abnormal carelessness, in 
spite of it all ! Bay-trees are not in it with 
you ! " 

" I don't understand you," replied James. 

" I don't," Tonbridge pursued, " think 
much of myself in the way of morality, but 
beside you, well as I know my world and 
thoroughly as I use it, I am a white lamb 
beside a devil incarnate." 

James looked at his friend, and lost hope 
of him for the while. He had spoken so 
often to Tonbridge of the goodness of the 
world ; he had laid bare to his eyes — if they 
would but look aright — pages of unblemished 
integrity, yet still he leered. Suddenly the 
whole Holborn Restaurant leered, with 
Tonbridge, at James. Still his spirituality 
was unshaken ; still his eye looked down 
from the highest hill in the Impossible range, 
and it roved over Tonbridge and the Holborn 
Restaurant with infinite compassion. He 
put his knife and fork together reluctantly 
over the remains of the second steak, laid a 
sovereign on the table, and directed the 
waiter's attention to it ; then rose and spoke. 

" Edmund, when you have removed your 
mind from the sink of iniquitous suspicion in 
which it is steeped at present it will be a 
pleasure to lunch with you again." 

" Oh ! go away, James ! " cried his friend, 
rocked with laughter. 

James went away, not without dignity, 
despite the ribaldry of the Holborn Restaurant. 

Having still half an hour left out of the 
time he allowed himself for lunch, he spent it 
at his tailor's. He gave orders for boating 
flannels ; for a motoring coat and cap ; and 
for something suitable for yachting. He 
would call in two days for fittings, and when 
completed the order was not to be sent to 
Hampstead, but to the Gracechurch Street 

Even his tailor seemed mildly interested in 
the mystery that hung about James. 

The afternoon was exceedingly strenuous ; 
also hot. He was glad to turn from work at 
last, and to find himself in the comparative 
quiet and cool of Hampstead. 

" How is my old James ? " cried Catharine, 
playfully, when she saw him coming. 



He replied that he was very well, and asked 
how she had managed that day. 

44 Excellently, thank you, dear// replied 
she, biting off her cotton as she spoke, and 
threading the needle industriously again. 
44 And the servant question is, I am thankful 
to say, settled," 

James looked to hear more. 

44 I talked it over with Mrs. Hunter," 
Catharine continued, " and we said, ' Why 
should not Eva come ? ' It would do her 
good to get a little more domestic experience, 
and really, she has very little cooking at 
home. I think Mrs. Hunter was absolutely 
grateful to me for suggesting it. Quite a 
brain wave, she thought. So we settled thai 
Eva should come in the mornings, and for 
an hour in the evenings, to cook dinner. 
Altogether, I have calculated that we shall 
save by it." 

James inquired, sinkingly, " How, love ? " 

" Why, dearie," said Catharine, letting her 
sewing fall on her lap, and regarding him 
with her implacable wisdom, mingled with 
reproach for his obtuseness, 44 she will not be 
here all day. She will come after breakfast, 
and leave before tea. Lunch will be the only 
meal she will take here. I settled with them 
that she would not expect dinner, though she 
will return to cook it." 

44 Ah ! " said James, sighing sharply. 

44 Dormer, of course, was entirely fed," 
added Catharine. 

44 Ah ! " said James, again. 

44 Then the wages," Catharine calculated, 
44 we shall save on that, too. Dormer had 

44 Pounds ? " said James. " And Miss 
Eva ? " 

44 Sixteen," replied Catharine, sewing. 4< I 
said that, of course, she would not expect so 
much, as she would not be here all day, and 
they quite saw it." 

44 Ah ! " said James. 44 Ah ! Ah ! Ah ! " 

James breakfasted the following morning 
with a severe and steadfast purpose. 

Catharine asked, wifely fashion, behind her 
tray : — 

44 A busy day, dear ? " 

He replied, 44 1 expect so, my love." 

She saw him off at the gate, waving to him, 
trim and admirable, until he turned the corner 
for the station. There, instead of going City- 
wards, he took a train for Highgate. 

The registry office was so much the same 
when he entered it that morning that really 
the row of mistresses and the row of ingra- 

tiating ones who smiled openly upon his 
advent might have sat there unmoved since 
yesterday. It was five minutes to ten. He 
walked forward firmly, in spite of the eyes fixed 
upon him, and sat down in the employers' 
row. To right and to left of him patient 
women, who had brought needlework to 
while away the time, crocheted. While he 
sat in the registry office that summer morning 
James was filled with many new thoughts — 
amazed, admiring — of the patient household 
woman who hunts her staff in registry offices, 
and crochets until she finds it. It threw 
new light on the female suffering which 
prevails, unwept and unsung, in the middle 

When he could have borne the dumb 
pleading of the cooks opposite no longer 
Dorothy Dormer walked opportunely in. 

She bore herself with a slight air of defiance. 
She approached the desk, and was motioned 
towards James. 

How cold was her stare ! 

He rose to his feet gladly, yet trembling 
before her defiance, and approached her, hat 
in hand. 

44 Miss Dormer," he begged, in a low voice, 
44 may I speak to you ? " 

44 If it is about renewing my post with you," 
she replied, freezingly, 44 certainly not. I have 
no intention or wish to do so." 

44 Believe me," said James, earnestly, 44 1 
have no intention or wish to ask you." 

44 What, then, is your business, sir ? " 
asked Miss Dormer. 

His business ! How explain, with Suspicion 
in rows on either side, and Suspicion sitting 
at a desk before them ? He thought swiftly, 
while Miss Dormer bit her lip, and made 
a bridling movement of the chin, certainly 

44 I was sorry," he replied, at last, 44 for 
the way you parted from us. It was not, 
believe me, by any wish of mine, and it makes 
me feel, in a measure, responsible for your 
immediate welfare." 

Her eye softened, and she looked more 
kindly at him. He said : — 

44 Could you not speak to me outside ? " 

She came, with an air of reserve. 

44 1 have heard of a — a situation," said 
James, " an excellent situation, in Manchester. 
The wages are practically whatever you care 
to ask, and my reference would be quite 
sufficient. The situation, however, must be 
entered upon this very day." 

44 It would be rather a rush," said Miss 
Dormer. " St:Il, I have no doubt I could 

man ^J^VE^irfWcHIGAN 



" As — housekeeper — lady housekeeper/' " Excuse me interrupting, sir/' mid Dorothy 

said James. Dormer, turning the round eye of Suspicion 

11 It might suit me/' replied Dorothy upon him, " hut what have you to do with 
Dormer. " There's 
mv box, though." 

"Where/ 1 James 
inquired j '* is your 

"At my lodging/' / > ^ 

said Miss Dormer. 1 J J 11 i£^ 

** It would have lo * .jp' j^^\ *f m Stlfc^ 

be fetched." 




James rapidly outlined his pleasant plan, 
" I propose that you and I fetch it imme- 
diately. We shall go in a taxicab, in which 
I can wait, while you pack. Then " 

me going to a new post ? 
Except the reference, of 
course, which I'm very 
much obliged for," 

And he set a gin for 
Dorothy Dormer. He 
said, with his reliable 
air : — 

" The fact is this : I 
am going up to Man- 
chester to-day on busi- 
ness, and having had 
letter from a friend there, 
imploring me to find a housekeeper at once, 
on any reasonable terms, I thought of you, 
and intended to suggest that we should travel 
up together, so that I could show you the 
way to the house. I hope you have nothing 
to say against that ? " 

" Nothing at all, sir/' she replied, on brief 
reflection ; " but you wi)l understand that us 


i i 






" You cannot be too careful/' said James, 

" I am much obliged for your offer, sir." 

Having found a taxicab on the nearest 
rank, they drove to Miss Dormer's address, 
and she went within to pack her box. James 
sat in the cab, and thought very carefully. 
Within an hour they were at Euston. 

Here he telephoned to Catharine his brief 
absence on business. 

Dorothy Dormer had the journey of her 
life. She was provided with papers most 
carefully chosen to her taste, with chocolates ; 
she was taken presently, flustered yet dig- 
nified, to the luncheon car, where she lunched 
on perfect equality with Mr. James Bright. 
His kindness, his simplicity, his returning 
joyousness — having got over the preliminary 
difficulty of the setting of the gin — put her 
quickly at her ease. She replied to James 
readily ; then she talked to him, then she 
laughed with him, then at him, then was 
insolent in the pretty manner which it seemed 
that all women, save Catharine, knew how 
to adopt, the rogues ! 

A couple of glasses of claret worked the 
miracle. At first Miss Dormer said that she 
never had, then that she was Temperance, 
then she sipped, then she continued. It was 
after this that she became so captivating. 

The two hours after lunch slipped quickly 
by. Tea followed charmingly, and their 
friendship ripened. Arrived in Manchester, 
James took her to the hotel close to the 

" If you will sit down a moment," he told 
her, " I will just ring up my friend, and tell 
him you are here, and that I am about to take 
you to the house." 

He disappeared for a space. How was this 
poor girl to guess that he went merely to the 
bar, to stimulate himself for the final lie ? 

During the journey hither James had put 
many questions and answers mutely to him- 
self, such as : " Is this abduction ? I suppose 
so. But is it justified ? As it is innocent, 
yes. Shall I make this girl unhappy ? I do 
not think so. Is deception at any time right ? 
At times undoubtedly." 

The answers, as we see, worked out in- 
variably in favour of his course. Now, at 
the bar, while he drank a brandy and soda 
rapidly, again he reviewed the position, and 
it still presented itself to him in the same 

He went back, therefore, to Dorothy 

" Miss Dormer," he said, " I am really 
sorry. But my friend's gardener answered 

VoL xlvii.— tl. 

by L^OOgle 

the telephone, and said that his master had 
been suddenly called away, and could not 
be back till to-morrow afternoon. There 
would be no one in the house to-night to 
companion you. I am afraid, therefore, that 
you must stay here till my friend's return. 
You «will allow me, of course, to defray your 

As by a miracle Dorothy Dormer allowed 
it. As by a miracle she seemed not in the 
least degree nonpjussed. It was evident that 
she trusted James implicitly, and if this trust 
may have caused him a twinge of remorse 
for his duplicity, at the same time it brought 
to him pride, joy, and a renewed confidence 
in the race. They dined together. By Miss 
Dormer's wish they went afterwards to a 
music-hall. On their return she was so 
far inflated by her experiences as to yawn 
arrogantly, remarking that she was tired, 
and to speak further of breakfasting in bed. 

She shook hands — being now a lady house- 
keeper in embryo — when she said good night 
to James, and the lift carried her upwards 
to number thirty-six. 

James stepped into the lift half an hour 
later, ascended to number twenty-four, and 
slept the sleep of the just. 

He breakfasted early the next morning, 
sent a note up to Dorothy Dormer begging 
her to rest well, and to wait in the hotel for 
his return from sudden imperative business, 
and left for the nearest house-agent's. 

He passed a very busy morning, but, money 
being really no object, succeeded in every 
undertaking. The house — by a stroke of 
fortune newly decorated — was in a healthy 
suburb. A firm of upholsterers, bidden to 
furnish it in best style throughout by four 
o'clock in the afternoon, or forfeit the order, 
sprang upon their mettle ; a jobbing gardener 
proceeded at once to the scene of action. 
A registry office — he feared and hated these 
places— disgorged two maids. And thus he 
gilded a cage for Dorothy Dormer. One may 
imagine that he . came back rather late for 
lunch and Dorothy Dormer. 

She shook hands with him rather languidly, 
and pouted over a " lonesome morning." 
James was sorry. 

When would his friend be at home ? 

At four o'clock James would conduct her 
personally to the house. 

At four o'clock, then, Dorothy and James, 
with Dorothy's box, drove aw r ay from the 
hotel into the healthy suburb. The up- 
holsterers had done their work, and blinds 
and curtains of beautiful hues now filled the 
windows. The gardener, who was pruning 




rose bushes, ran forward to carry in the box. 
The door flew open as if by magic, and dis- 
closed to view a perfect maid, to whom 
Dorothy Dormer — being a lady housekeeper 
— nodded haughtily. 

Then she asked for tea to be served in the 
drawing-room at once. She made James 

Tea came. The parlourmaid went. They 
were alone. 

James braced himself up for a short but 
entire confession. When it was made, Miss 
Dormer at first asked for her box. He 
dissuaded her from that immediate course. 
She said next that she had always trusted 
him to behave like a gentleman. He asked 
passionately if he had not done so. Brought 
presently to some sort of understanding of 
his aims, Miss Dormer, with hesitation, with 
round eyes of Suspicion for James, but of 
wonder for her surroundings, consented to 
accept the position — on trial. On trial of 
James, she meant, and he knew it. 

He said that she would always find things 
entirely to her approval. 

Miss Dormer succumbed, in short, to the 
temptations of her house, her astounding 
income, and the sheer joy of brow-beating 
her own maid-servants. 

James stayed, therefore, in his Manchester 
home that night. Among other thoughts came 
this : — 

" One's own place is certainly preferable 
to hotels. On that ground alone it would 
not be a bad idea." 

He wondered if many rich business men 
did likewise. 

He went home the next day, after exacting 
a promise of frequent letters from Miss 
Dormer, to be addressed to Gracechurch 
Street, and telling her of the necessity of his 
frequent business visits to the new branch. 

" A telegram," he said, warningly, " may 
come any day, and I shall follow." 

" Your room will always be kept ready," 
replied Dorothy, condescendingly, " and you 
will always be welcome." 

James thanked her, and left, regretfully, 
with many a backward look at her as she 
stood, comely and condescending, in her 
garden, watching his departure. It gave him 
a sense of pleasant restfulness — apart from 
the satisfaction of a knowledge of duty done 
—to remember that now, in four towns where 
his branches flourished, he had built himself 
these charming nests. 

In this mood of satisfaction he returned to 

Catharine awaited .him, and a dinner of 
Eva's cooking could be smelled through the 
hall. Before they ate it, Catharine came to 
sit in the basket-chair in his dressing-room, 
and to ask him about his doings, with a very 
kind show of interest. 

" You were called away very suddenly? " 

" I had half-expected it," replied James. 

" You did not mention it, dear, to 

" No, love ; I did not." 

" I hope everything was satisfactory at 
Manchester ? " 

" Extremely, my dear ; thank you." 

" My old James must be rather a tired 
boy," continued Catharine, tenderly. 

James passed a hand over his parting, and 
peered into the glass. 

" Catharine," he said, with a little anxiety, 
" you often call me your f old ' James. It is 
a figure of speech, is it not ? I do not think 
that anyone would take me for more than my 
age ; do you ? " 

" Let me see," said Catharine. " Thirty- 
nine ? Well, James, perhaps not." 

" Catharine," said James, a little hesita- 
tingly, " do you notice that I have altered my 

" Have you, my dear ? " replied Catharine. 
"lam afraid I do not remember what it was 
like before." 

James may be pardoned for the thought 
which rose, "She notices. Little Nora 
notices ! " 

Catharine continued, " You will be glad to 
hear that I manage quite well with Eva. And 
I feel sure we shall save on her." 

" I am very glad, love," said James, 
tucking his feet into his old pumps, and 
taking Catharine's arm. They went down- 
stairs thus affectionately, side by side, to a 
plain but well-served dinner. 

" How do you think Eva cooks ? " 
Catharine inquired, when a course had 

" Excellently," replied James, kindly. 

" It will be a very good training for her 
here," said Catharine. " She will learn from 
me how to manage when she has a home of 
her own." 

Now, however culpable we may consider 
him in the light of after events, it was 
certainly Catharine who, by that remark, set 
James thinking. 

(To be 

by Google 


Original from 


The Latest Chess Genius. 




fjHE greatest interest has been 
excited during the last few 
years by the appearance of a 
new star in the chess firma- 
ment. Chess-players every- 
where, which means nothing 
short of the civilized world, 
have been attracted by the brilliant perform- 
ances on the chequered board of the youthful 
Cuban, Capablanca. When a mere boy 
appears on the scene and shows that he can 
more than hold his own against the best 
living masters we are forced to admit the 
fact that the chess genius, perhaps in an 
even more marked way than the poet, is 
" born j not made." The chess prodigy 
appears at rare intervals, and before we 
consider the powers and performances of the 
subject of this article it will be interesting to 
cast our thoughts back, quite briefly, to two 
of his predecessors. 

In the sixteenth century, Leonardo, a boy 
bora at Cutri, in Calabria, who was studying 
the law at Rome, showed remarkable talent 
at the game of chess. He was able to beat 
with ease all the best players with whom he 
was brought in contact, and on account of 

Digitized by C-OOQlC 

Prvm an Oid Print. 

his youth was known far and wide as II 
Puttino, the boy. He went to Naples, where 
he remained two years studying and play- 
ing the game. He then visited his 
native place, Cutri, where he learnt that his 
brother had been taken by corsairs and was 
chained to the oar, Leonardo set out to 
ransom him, and agreed with the captain of 
the galley that he should be set at liberty for 
two hundred crowns. II Puttino, having 
discovered that the captain was a chess- 
player, played with him , and won his brother's 
ransom and two hundred crowns beside, with 
which he returned to Naples, Then he 
sailed to Genoa, Marseilles, and Barcelona, 
playing with and conquering all he met. 
He was poisoned by some envious person 
in the palace of Prince Bisignano in Calabria, 
and died in his forty-sixth year. 

Paul Morphyj the greatest chess genius the 
world has yet known, was born m New 
Orleans on June 22nd 3 1837. His father was 
born of Spanish parents in the State of South 
Carolina, and his mother's family was French, 




long settled in the West Indies. He had, 
therefore, no tinge of Anglo-Saxon blood in 
his veins. Paul's father, Judge Morphy, of 
the Supreme Court of Louisiana, beguiled his 
leisure hours with the fascinations of chess. 
It is said that Paul learnt the moves by 
watching his father play with his uncle, 
Ernest Morphy, one of the finest players 
of his day. There is an oft -told legend that 
one evening this gentleman awaited the 
arrival of the Judge, when Master Paul 
impudently offered to be his antagonist. 
What was the uncle's astonishment at finding 
the stripling a match for his deepest com- 
binations, and what the father's surprise on 
discovering a genius in his son of ten years ! 
Morphy certainly became a great chess- 
player at a very early age. His brilliance, 
which came not in flashes but exhibited 
itself in consistent steadiness, astonished 
the world. It is plain fact that, in a 
match with Herr Lowenthal, the celebrated 
Hungarian player, in 1849, Morphy won 
two and drew the third. There can also 
be no question that Morphy was then only 
twelve years of age ! 

One writer in 1858 says, " He frightened 
his adversaries, not only by his strength, 
but by his personal appearance. This 
boy of twenty-one, five feet four inches 
in height, of slim figure, and face like a 
young girl in her teens, positively appalled 
the chess warriors of the Old World — 
Narcissus defying the Titans." 

He died suddenly in New Orleans on 
July 10th, 1884. Perhaps the greatest 
feat ever performed in chess was Morphy 's 
encountering the masters, Boden, Bird, 
Barnes, Lowenthal, and De Riviere, simul- 
taneously, and beating them all ! 

And now to come to the subject of this 
article. Jos6 R. Capablanca, who was placed 
on the chessboard of life just about twenty- 
five years ago, is a Cuban. He is a tall, dark, 
handsome young fellow, with merry blue eyes, 
and appears to be even younger than he is. 
With all his strength and genius as a chess- 
player he is modest in demeanour and 
generous in play. Chess is, with him, more 
an instinct than a matter of education. He 
says, " I used to play chess before I learnt to 
write, but I have not studied it. I only study 
it when I am playing." He was accustomed 
to play his schoolmates under all sorts of 
handicaps, but invariably won. At the age 
of sixteen he won the championship of Cuba, 
though the Havana Chess Club numbers 
amongst its members several players of 
European reputation. When asked whether 

by L^OOgle 

mathematics had been his strong point at 
school, he said, " Not specially. Many of 
my schoolmates could beat me in that subject 
easily, although I have scored ninety-nine per 
cent, of the marks in an examination paper." 

Six or seven years ago, when Capablanca 
was a student at the Columbia University, 
New York, he would frequently stroll " up 
town " and drop in at the Manhattan Chess 
Club — perhaps the greatest chess club in the 
world, which has its quarters in the Carnegie 
Building. In deference to his father's wishes 
he was not an actual member, but he was 
always very welcome. Here he frequently 
met Lasker and other masters in play. His 
modest, amiable, and retiring disposition made 
him many friends. He was generally 
" Cappa " to his intimates. A favourite 
form of play on these occasions was " rapid 
transit " games, where a considerable number 
of boards are in use and the time-keeper 
regulates the play to, say, a move in twenty 
seconds. In this rapid play Capablanca was 
always very successful, making his moves 
almost instantly, and removing his attention 
from the board while his opponent was deep 
in his analysis of the position. This easy 
manner of play is very characteristic of the 
young Cuban. Sometimes he would play a 
number of games simultaneously. He is, 
undoubtedly, one of the most popular players 
we have ever had, and his presence at the 
Manhattan invariably attracted a small 
crowd of members as spectators. His analyti- 
cal remarks on some game under discussion 
were always interesting and instructive, and 
he is a rapid solver of problems. In this 
club, in a glass case, are preserved the board 
and gold and silver chessmen that were 
presented to Paul Morphy by his countrymen 
on his return from Europe. One cannot 
help thinking that the boy Capablanca must 
often have regarded these relics with special 
interest, for it is hajdly necessary to say that 
he is a great admirer of Morphy's brilliant 

Capablanca was also frequently to be seen 
at the Brooklyn Chess Club, the scene of a 
good many of his triumphs. After three 
years at college he made a chess tour of 
the States. Playing simultaneously against 
forty-nine members of the Pittsburg Club, he 
won forty-two, drew five, and lost two. At 
St. Louis he played thirty-six games, and 
won them all ! In fact, during the tour he 
played in all five hundred and ninety games 
(all in simultaneous play), and actually 
won five hundred and sixty of these, a truly 
remarkable feat. 

Original from 




But the performance of all others that made 
players rub their eyes and realize that a new 
chess prophet had appeared was Capablanca's 
wonderful defeat of Mr. F. J. Marshall, the 
American champion, in the match that closed 
at the Manhattan Club on June 23rd, 1909, 
Capablanca won eight games, and Marshall 
only one. There were as many as fourteen 
drawn games, but the young Cuban through- 
out adhered to a determination that he had 
formed, not to fake undue risks in this first 
great match of his. To the question whether 
he did not study the games and methods of 
the great masters before playing any of them, 
he replied, quite frankly, * b No; I play chess 
as an amusement. The moves come to me 
subconsciously, I suppose , as I am playing — 
just as correct arithmetic comes to an expert 
clerk in a City office when he is adding up 

When he arrived in London , from New 
York, on November 15th, 191 I, he, the 
same evening, encountered 
team of twenty-eight players of the 
City of London Chess Club simul- 
taneously, from seven till eleven 
o'clock. Capablanca won sixteen, 
lost nine, and drew three. The 
winners were Messrs. Atkins, 
Baker, Blake, Curnock, Maas, 
Stephens, Wa in wr ight, 
Walker, and Wood. 

be no question as to the strength of his 
antagonists on this occasion either* There 
was a large company of interested spectators, 
Capablanca has accepted the post of vice- 
consul in St. Petersburg, so we may expect 
him to take part in the big St, Petersburg 
Chess Tournament to be held in January, 
1 91 4. He also hopes to arrange matches with 

But in a 
report of the pro- 
ceedings we read, " After 
about an hour and a half s play Capa- 
blanca was overcome by a sudden lassitude of 
the brain, which lasted only a few minutes; and 
then the indifferent moves occurred in those 
games which he subsequently lost. In one 
instance, with Mr, Maas T he overlooked even 
the loss of ;i pin v. This lassitude passed 
quickly, and he felt quite fresh again/' Even 
a great genius cannot expect to have it all his 
own way under such conditions and against 
such strong players. Two days later he 
played twenty-six at the Curzon Hotel, 
winning all but one, which he drew ! Among 
the defeated players were Messrs* Loman, 
Serraillier, Mitchell, and Pierce, so there can 

Digitized by ^OOQ lc 


Fkata, by Fhuto. Pre** 

Duras and Janowsky, 
which will be of absorb- 
ing interest to players all 
over the world. On his way 
to take up his post Capablanca 
spent a short time in London, and 
played a good deal at various clubs 
and chess resorts. On October 13th last he 
played twenty-eight simultaneous games to 
a finish at the City of London Club, It was 
a very strong team, selected from the first to 
third classes, and the play lasted four and 
a half hours, He won eighteen p drew three, 
and lost seven. It was one of the most 
interesting functions ever held at the club. 
The visitors and members Included Dr. Lasker T 
Mr, Blackburne, and many other well-known 
celebrities of the chess world. 

The failure of all attempts to brinp about a 
match between Lasker, the present champion 
chess-player, and Cupahlanca has provoked 




much heated discussion, We will abstain 
from adding fresh fuel to the flames, and 
content ourselves with quoting from an 
article by a well-known writer on the game, 
published at the beginning of the present 
year: "The champion holds the field, and 
may, if he pleases, contrive to do so without 
further contest. It is a curious situation. 
Those who, like myself, still believe Lasker to 
be the strongest player in the world cannot 
but think it strange that he seems so shy. 
He will only play under his own conditions, 
but unless his sword is to rust in its scabbard 
— in which case his title would automatically 
lapse — it is necessary that he should make 
such conditions as will be easily acceptable/' 
To give the reader an idea as to Capa- 
blanca's style of play, we probably cannot do 
better than quote from a lecture delivered 
before the St, Petersburg Chess Club, in the 
spring of 191 1, by Mr. E. A. Snosko Borowski. 
His conclusions will be found borne out in the 
case of the games that we shall give. To 
Capablanca, says our author, " position is of 
no importance whatever. In all his games 
we shall not find a single one where the 
position is interesting in itself. Instead, we 
find a procession of astonishing moves, moves 
that sometimes save a bad position, and some- 
times give the game a totally unexpected 
turn. We would not venture to say that 
Capablanca did not grasp the nature of a bad 
position into which he had fallen, but we 
maintain that he conceives it always in terms 
of saving moves, , , , The number of such 
unexpected and surprising moves in Capa- 
blanca J s games is remarkable. There is 




P to Q4 


P to Q B 4 


Q Kt to B 3 


PtoK 4 


P to B4 


Q takes P 


B to K 3 


Kt to Q 5 


K P takes Kt 


Kt to B 3 




Q R to K sq 


Q to Q sq 


K to Kt sq 




B takes B, ch 


Kt to Q 4 


P to B 5 


K Kt to B 3 
P to Q 3 
Q Kt to Q 2 
F toK 4 
V takes Q P 
Kt to B 4 
Q to K * 
Kt takes Kt 
B to B 4 
P to K Kt 3 (a) 
K R to Kt sq 
B to Kt 2 
Kt to K 5, ch 
K to B sq 
P to K Kt 4 (b) 
R takes B 
B to Q 2 
Q toK 4 

19. Q to Q 3 

hardly a single game without at least one 
move of this character, and there are 
frequently many such, In fact, Capablarua's 
downfall is only effected when, as sometimes 
happens, his opponent hits upon moves of 
the same surprising character as his own," 

Mr. Borowski predicts that Capablanca 's 
play will mark an epoch in the game. 

Capablanca, as was generally expected, 
*' came out on top " in the National American 
Tournament, scoring eleven games to Mar- 
shall's ten and a half, but later, in the 
tournament at the Havana Chess Club, the 
luck of tournament play gave Marshall his 
revenge, for he was the winner with ten 
and a half games against Capablanca's ten. 

When we asked a well-known player to give 
us his impressions of Capablanca 's play, he 
"said 3 s< I have been impressed by his extremely 
youthful appearance, his great facility and 
rapidity of play, indicating intuitive grasp 
of position, and by his quietly-confident 
bearing, 17 All seem to agree as to that 
remarkable intuition. Capablanca scouts the 
idea of the game affecting his sleep, and a 
writer remarks, (i The man so troubled is, 
indeed , usually his opponent/' The Cuban 
is not unacquainted with chess journalism, 
for we believe he joined the New York Chess 
Weekly early in 1910 as editor-in-chief. 

We will now give the reader a few of this 
new master's games to play over and 
consider. Considerations of space must be 
our excuse for the brevity of the notes. 

The first game we will give (a Queen's 
Pawn Opening) was plsyed in the Havana 
Tournament : — / 



R to K sq 


ft HiH 



■ a 1 * 1 112 




Capablanca p 

20, Kt to K 6, ch (OP takes Kt 

2i- B P takes P 

22. P takes R 

23, Q to B 3, ch 
24- Q to K 3 
2*. P to QKt 4 
26. P to Kt 5 
27- P to Kt 3 
38. Q to Q B 3 

29. K to B 2 

30. P to B 5 

31. K to Kt sq 

32. K"to B 2 

33- Q to R 5 
34* K to Kt sq 
35. Q takes P, Ch 

R takes P 
Q I0B5 
K toK 2 
P toKt 3 
B to Kt 2 

Kt to Q 7 (A 

Kt to B 6, ch 
Q to Bsq 
Kt to B 6, ch 
Kt P takes P 
Kt to K 4, 
Q to B 6 

If 16. B takes B, ch, 


Position after Black's 15th move* 
(a) Pretty ! White cannot take the Ron account of Q takes B, ch, etc. 
(h) One of those M unexpected and surprising moves ** of which Mr. Borowski speaks, 
R takes B ; 17- Kt takes P, Kt takes Kt. If now, 18. R takes Q, Kt to R 6, mate ! 

(c) A very good move, but Black has his bold sacrifice of rook at move 21 up his sleeve— the only way of 
preserving the attack, 

(d) Another surprising and beautiful move. 

Original from 







Here is a game (Fetrofl Defence) played with Marshall at the New York State Associa- 
tion Tournament in February, 1910, — 



1, PtoK4 

2, Kt to K B 3 

3, Kt takes P 

4, Kt to K B 3 

5- P to Q 4 

6. B to Q 3 

7. Castles 

8. R to K sq 

9. P to B 4 

0. P takes P 

1. Q takes B 

2. QtoK 3 

3. B takes Kt 

4. Q takes P, ch 

5. BtoKt5 

6- Q takes Kt 

7. Kt to B 3 

8. Kt to K 4 

9. P to K Kt 3 
so, Q takes R P 

P toK 4 
Kt to K B 3 
PtoQ 3 
Kt takes P 

B to K Kt 5 
Kt to Q B 3 

B to Q 3 
B takes Kt 
Kt takes P 
Q toB3 
P takes B 
Kto Ba 
Q takes B 
K R to K sq 
K to Kt sq 
Q to R J 
Q R to Q sq 
B to Kt 5 





R toK3 
Q takes B P 
QtoQ 7 

P to Q Kt 3 
R to Q B sq 
Q to Kt 3 



Position after White's 26th move. 






P to Q 6 (a) 

Q R to Q sq 


QtoB 7 

R to Q B sq 


PtoQ 7 

R takes Q 


PtakesR( = Q),chQ takes Q 


Kt to B 6, ch 

P takes Kt 


R takes Q, ch 



R to K 2 (*) 

R to B 5 


R to Q sq 

B to B 4 

,12 - 

K to Kt 2 

K to Kt 3 


P toB4 

P toR4 



P to B 4 


ft to K 6, ch 

K to B 2 


R to K 5 

R toB 7 


R takes P, ch 

K to Kt 3 


R to Kt 5, ch 

KtoR 3 


R toQ 7 

R takes Kt P 



7 R to B 7, ch 


KtoK 4 

P to R 5 


R(Kts> toKt6,ch K to R 4 


P to Kt 4, mate 

(a) White, having three pawns and a won game* finds an opening for a pretty finish. 

(b) Capablanca now conceives an elegant final combination. 

The following game (Two Knights Defence) was played in the American Tournament : — 

P toK 4 
Kt to K B 3 
PtoQ 3 
P takes P 
B takes Kt 
P to K R 3 
B to Q 2 

P toK4 
Kt to Q B 3 
Kt to B 3 
P to Q 4 
Kt takes P 
Q takes B 
B to Kt 5, ch 



9. Castles 

10. Kt to B 3 

ir* R to K sq 

12. Kt to K 2 

13. Kt to B 4 
14- Kt to Kt 5 

15, Kt T.0Q5 

16. P to K R 4 



BtoQ 3 
PtoB 3 

P to B 4 <*) 
Q toB 2 

Q to Kt 3 
PtoB $ 

(a) A venturesome advance, giving the opponent's knights more scope 

(b) For if 25. B to K 3, P to Q 7 wins ; or if 25. R to Q B sq, B takes 

17, P to Q 4 
i8 + Qto B3 

19. Kt to R 3 

20. Q takes B 

21. Q R to Q sq 

22. B takes P 

23. R takes R 

24. Q to K 6 r ch 
Resigns {b} 

for attack. 
B wins. 

P takes P 
P to K R 3 
B takes Kt 
Q takes B P 
Q R to K sq 
K takes R, ch 
P toQ6 
K to R sq 

As an example of Capablanca's careful and accurate end-game play, we give the pretty 
finish to a long game which he played in the Rice Chess Club Tournament in New York, 
It was a critical game, as it decided the first place in favour of Capablanca. Duras, his 
opponent, was second prize-winner. The following is the position in the game after White's 
64th move : — 




■ ' O" ]!■%■ 

1 s M 

■•■ urn 

1 Hi 

1 J 1 -!■ 

f#p^ | 







R to Q R 3 


6 S . 

R to R 3, ch 

KtoK s 


P takes P 

P to B 6 {a) 


K to Kt sq 

RtoQ 6 


Rto R8 

K takes P 


R to K 8 t ch 

Kto B 5 


R to K Kt S 

R to Q 8 r ch 


Kto B a 

R to Q 7, ch 

7 2 - 

K to B sq 

R to K R 7 


K to Kt sq 

R takes P 


R to Kt 7 

P to Kt % 


R to Kt S 

K to Kt 6 

(a) Pretty, and wins by force. Black's management of the king throughout the game was also masterly. 

by Google 

Original from 



Their Adventures Grave and Gay. 

AN you swim, walk a tight 
rope, ' drive an express 
engine, vault from a motor- 
car when travelling at sixty 
miles an hour, stop runaway 
horses, wrestle with wild 
animals, and " 

" Certainly ! " 

" Oh, that's all right, then. Now we'll see 
if you can act." 

Such might be the typical introductory 
conversation passing between a producer and 
a new aspirant for the honours and glories 
of the picture-play heroine. 

It must be admitted that the average film 
favourite often has to face strange situations 
and to incur grave risks. 

In one Essanay play the scene was laid in 
a down-town cafi, the proprietor of which 
received a handsome remuneration for the 
use of his establishment during the lunch 
hour. Miss Dolores Cassinelli was taking the 
part of a woman of the world, and as she is 
possessed of a wonderful voice she started 
singing the aria from " Aida," to infuse more 
actuality into the part she was playing. 
Instantly the crowd in the restaurant, struck 
by the singing, rose and pressed round 
the artiste. The producer stormed and 
threatened as the admirers obstructed the 
camera, but they refused to budge, and 
offered to throw the producer and operator 
outside if they did not keep quiet. The 
artiste was somewhat embarrassed at the 
turn of events, but the crowd encouraged 
her to go on. Four times the aria was ren- 
dered, and then the crowd, turning to the 
operator standing by his camera, bade him 
to " Get on with the coffee-mill, and be quick 
about it, or we shall be after some more 

Sensationalism to-day is the rage, and 
grave risks are incurred to satisfy this demand. 
In a recent film Miss Blanche Sweete, more 
popularly known as Miss Daphne Wayne 

Digitized by GoOgle 

among admirers of the Biograph films, had 
to be transferred from horse to horse while 
they were galloping madly side by side. 
The first attempt resulted in a nasty throw, 
which bruised her shoulder and sprained her 
wrist. Although suffering intense pain, she 
made another attempt, and this time alighted 
safely in the saddle of the second animal, but 
as the two brutes collided at the moment she 
had her left leg badly crushed, necessitating 
a few days' rest. 

The aeroplane has naturally been pressed 
into service for the pictures, and the artiste 
who essays a flight for the first time undergoes 
some strange sensations. Miss Alma Taylor, 
of the Hepworth Company, had to make 
a three miles' flight. Everything went 
swimmingly until the machine hit an air 
pocket. " It was the most unpleasant 
experience I have ever felt," she remarked 
upon alighting, " It seemed to me as if 
we fell about three thousand miles in three 
seconds, and in that brief interval all my 
past sins came over me. Just as I had given 
myself up for lost, however, the aeroplane 
commenced to travel in a respectable manner. 
The incident was capped by the aviator 
turning round to me and quietly remarking, 
' Did you notice that we dropped a little 
just now ? ' " 

" From the Manger to the Cross," suggested 
by Miss Gene Gauntier, and in which she 
fulfilled the role of the Virgin Mary for the 
Kalem Company, was not devoid of one 
exciting incident. The assistance of the 
Turkish Government was obtained to facilitate 
the staging in Palestine, but one day the 
producer, operator, Miss Gauntier, and two 
other performers realized the dangers 
attending penetration into the wildnesses 
of Lower Palestine in search of local colour. 
The party was surrounded by a band of 
menacing Bedouins. They had been follow- 
ing the photographing work with interest, 
and doubtless had become impressed with 

■_-l I H 1 1 I u l l \\ 




Vol slviL-12. 


whose Hmiderful voice «nce placed her in a somewhat 

rTnharrAAsintil ^kaAtion. 

Miss Gaun tier's beauty. At all events, 
they advanced and mack- thorn pri- 
soners. Miss Gauntier, not appreciating 
the prospect of life with the nomads, 
parleyed, and explained that they were 
prepared to pay (or their freedom. The 
bargain was completed for five hundred 
dollars, which being forthcoming the 
Arabs salaamed and rode away. 

While the Kalem Company was film- 
in- a battle picture an excited super, in 
i crossing a stream 

Mi™ DAPHNE W A YNR. flurin „ thc height 
whu vi m twice injured during ^ ^ 

tbf i«kinf of an rxciting of the rum bat, fell 
Mw *J?SS}SW)alfromoflE his horse/ got 


9 3 



wis once captured by Bedouin k. 

tangled up with i!r- 
animal, and was in 
danger of drowning. 
Miss Mario Cooper 
recognized the nufti's 
ties pc ra tc plight, 
seized a jack-knife, 
dived in. swam to the 
spot, and. despite the 
lungingand kicking of 
the animal, cut the 
unfortunate player She brought 
him ashore in an. 


who jn luckily rescued ■ m*n from 

Originaf"" m ' {Kat "" 

h C c\r\n i ■"■ Ongmarfrom 




' ^r "v excels. In one scene she had to enter a 
burning house to rescue her lover. She 
fought her way through the smoke and 
climbed the stairs, but in the gloom she slipped, fell 
down the flight, and sprained her ankle* Undaunted, 
she crawled up the staircase once more,, reached her 
lover, and then collapsed under the pain. In so 
doing she rolled towards the spot where some oil- 
soaked shavings had been placed to produce the 
effect of flames, and her dress caught fire. Promptly 
the hero tore off his coat and smothered the burning 
attire. Then, picking her up, he carried her out of 
the building. Although the scene was diametrically 
opposite to what the producer desired, the resultant 
effect was so realistic: that it was retained. 

Western American scenes, full of vim and action, 
never fall to make appeal, and Miss Anna Nilsson 
is an adept in devising sensational novelties* In one 
instance, however, she had good cause to regret her 
ingenuity in this direction. She took up a standing 
position upon the rear of a wagon which was plunging 
a country road, warding off pursuers* 


it an adept in devising 

seflimtiomJ novel ties* 


hid an exciting adventure in 

a burning house. 

{CIwi* Cor) 

unconscious condition , 
and then, heedless of her 
own welfare, promptly set 
to work to restore him. 

The Italian producers are 
expert in the devising of sen 
satiate, and in this work Miss Mary 
Bayma Riva^ of the Gloria 

Digitized by 





during the production of films for 
the Vitagraph Company. A strong 
scene amid the backwoods of Maine was 
in progress wherein the heroine had to 
track her way across a snow-covered 
frozen river. But unfortunately a warm 
spell had converted the snow into 
treacherous, brittle slush, Suddenly 
there was a cry of alarm. The artiste 
fell like a plummet through the ice. 

ing photographing — the 
vrln< lc gave a wicked lurch through 
colliding with a boulder. The 
actress, caught una wares, was 
hurled tr> the ground with great 
. She laid still, and the com- 
pany rushed forward, fearing a 
severe aci ident, but when picked 
up she was found to have suf- 
fered no serious injuria, ln.ii was 
only badly shaken and dazed. 
Production was suspended for 
a few days id enable her \n 
recover, when she resumed 
her rule, 

Miss Lilian Walker has 
had In r share ol accidents 

4 - HAIJS" 

umiihrrn a lull 

fata tiler 

I'll mm'* mud 

imonil Iilt 





response to the inquiry t " Are you hurt ? " 
from the producer, replied, " No ! M 
and went through the scene as it 
had been drawn up. Then she 
was observed to be in diffi- 
culties, and was promptly 
hurried home, where a 
few days' enforced rest 
restored the damaged 
limb and enabled her 
to resume the play. 


if ho wa* once ai-ciwc'Lj 
nf abandoning a bit by. 

Sbf flung out her arms 
horizontally there by 
holding herself up. One of 
the actors pluckily made his 
way over the dangerous sur- 
face and. by the aid ol a young 
jack-pine, was able 10 effect her 
rescue. The unlucky artiste had fallen 
through a crack in the glassy covering 
which had been concealed by the slush, 
Some hours elapsed before she was restored, 
when she pluekily announced her rcsolv 
to repeat the attempt, 

A sprained ankle, a bruised face, and a close 
acquaintance with the Thames mud was the 
reward for the Holograph heroine, " liabs t? 
Neville, in making the film kl The (heal Gold 
Robbery.'' Upon a barge revolvers were crack- 
ing merrily, and the fight between the evildoers 
and justice was very brisk, when this artiste, caught in 
the mtlit) slipped upon the greasy deck. fell, knocked her 
face against the gunwale, and then rolled over the side 
into the murky river. Half-stunned, she disappeared from 
.sight. The camera was stopped, 

when one of the pseudo villains M . ^ ( vRY fuller 
jumped overboard, and at last the brm** of * thriiim* 

1,1 Cfct- escape from ■ ■fvtnlh-floor 

regained the young actress, bne wind.nv 

presented a sorry sight, buL^in (/;<#*>* cvj 

Digitized by G>< 

Original from 



In a domestic drama the Hepworth star 
artiste, Miss Chrissie White, had an amusing 
experience. She was enacting the role of 
a young mother who deserts her baby in a 
railway carriage. She entered the vehicle, 
and her evident distress over the child 
attracted considerable attention from an old 
lady, already seated, and who failed to observe 
the camera-man on the platform busy with 
his handle. At the next station she left the 
child in the lap of another lady occupying 
the compartment, who happened to be the 
real mother, the child having been borrowed 
for the occasion. The decamp and apparent 
abandonment of the baby proved too much 
for the old lady. She snatched up the baby, 
hurried out of the carriage, and chased the 
actress up the platform. The old lady caught 
her quarry, and then, in true maternal 
fashion, poured forth her opinions upon such 
heartless and disgraceful conduct. The real 
mother, anxious about her baby, hastened 
up, and there was an excited, babbling crowd 
of women on the platform. Finally the stage- 
manager advanced and wanted to know why 
everyone was spoiling his picture. When the 
old lady learned that it was all make-believe 
for the cinema she collapsed, while her dis- 
comfiture was completed by finding that the 
train had started off without her during the 

Miss Mary Fuller, who acted the title- 
role in " What Happened to Mary ? " can 
relate some side-lights upon the subject 
which the public does not know. In one 
scene she had to escape from a window 
on the seventh floor of a building by means 
of a rope improvised from bed-clothes. She 
essayed the idea with alacrity, but once she 
was out on the rope, which commenced to 
sway, and she realized the distance between 
the window and the street — why, she nearly 
fainted. " Come down hand over hand ! " 
yelled the manager from below. Instead, 
she attempted a quick slide. The rope sawed 
through her clenched hands, and the skin of 
her palms and fingers was burned off. When 
at last she touched the pavement and looked 
wonderingly at her bleeding hands, she 
exclaimed : " Was I frightened ? Well, 
rather. I hope the audience will get as good 
a thrill as I did ! " 

A lonely roadway — two sisters — the elder 
comforting the younger, who is in tears. 
This was the scene in the Wild West. It was 
a moving incident, and the producer wanted 
the heart-strings twanged to fortissimo. He 
was a keen man, and always .maintained an 
eagle eve for trespassers, lest thev injured his 

Digitized by dOOgle 

picture. But he was not sufficiently astute 
to detect a farmer's boy, who, hearing the 
sorrowful cries of Miss Alice Joyce, who was 
enacting the distressed young sister, sprang 
through the bushes and ran up to the two 
ladies, seeking their trouble and proffering 
assistance. The producer raved and the 
operator yelled, but the youth failed to hear 
them. The first intimation that he received 
of interfering with a spurious sad scene was 
when, the manager clutched him by the 
shoulder, twisted him round, and wanted to 
know what he meant by interfering. The 
youth, well-knit and sturdy, showed fight, 
and it was not until Miss Joyce explained to 
him " It is only for the pictures M that he 
condescended to get out of the way, although 
he kept a sharp eye upon the men in case of 
an emergency. 

The unauthorized acquisition of a settler's 
horse by an Indian is punished in the peculiarly 
drastic and effective method of the West — 
hanging upon the nearest tree. This was 
the fate which " Red-Wing," the talented 
full red-blooded actress of the Pat he Company, 
nearly experienced. The manager of the 
production had completed arrangements 
with a settler for such stealthy action, 
but, unfortunately, Red-Wing took the horse 
of the wrong man, who knew nothing about 
the matter. When he saw his horse being 
ridden off by an Indian the man gave chase 
with one or two pards, caught the runaway, 
and, without more ado, proceeded to put the 
unwritten law into execution. They whipped 
a lariat over her neck, and were just about 
to lift her up when the producer arrived upon 
the scene to explain. His argument was 
scarcely convincing ; the rough boys thought 
he was in collusion ; but when the man whose 
horse should have been stolen appeared 
during the harangue the apparent grievance 
was settled amicably amid a salvo of 
guffaw r s. 

During the past year the German pro- 
ducers have devoted their endeavours to 
sensational subjects, and in these pictures 
Miss Henny Porten has played a prominent 
part. In one film she was the heroine of an 
incident in the Franco-German War, where 
she was to climb stealthily to the roof of her 
home, which had been occupied by German 
officers, to tap the telegraph wires, so as to 
learn of the movements of the foe for trans- 
mission to the French commander. Un- 
fortunately, the roof of the extemporized 
building was somewhat unstably built, 
it giving way beneath her. Feeling the 
collapse, the actress threw up her hands to 



of the cottage; and, although 
it was feared that she had 
been grievously injured, she 
was found unscathed except 
for numerous scratches, 

But for sheer daring it would 
he difficult to find an equal, 
at all events in Great Britain, 



(the famous Red Indian Actress of the I'mlie Co J 

one* narrowly escaped beitid lynched. 

to Miss Marie Pickering, of the British 
and Colonial Kinematograph Company* 
She is as much at home in the air or 
vvat or as upon dry land, and is ready to 
attempt anything, Her most exciting ex- 
perience was in Molesey Lock, where she 
bad to dive into the water to rescue the 
bound, trussed, and gagged hero. Unfortu- 
nately, she di^not take full stock of the swirl 

KMftie opening of the 

of the waters W9JU__ 





i* a* much at home 
ill Lhc air Of uaftr 
bs upon dry J and. 
{British &* C&l#m$itl 
JCintmatttjirafk C&. ) 

lock, with the 
result that she 
found herseli 
being twi s te d 
round like a I 
totum until she 
was dizzy > and then, 
unable to help her- 
self, she sank* The 
immersion revived 

her somewhat, so, upon corning to the surface, 
she struck out, grabbed the hero, and got 
him ashore, though, as she remarked subse- 
quently, l4 she did not quiu- know whin she 
came up, and her head was still singing, whether she 
had to rescue ten men or one, 5 ' 

Mile- Gabrielle Robinne was once railed upon to 
nuke a drama tie escape from a castle, in which she 
had been imprisoned, for a Pa the film. The castle, 
surrounded by a moat, was searched for a small 
window which would suit the purpose. At last 
one was found, and the actress assumed her 
position within for the rehearsal, The boat of 
r> jcuers put off across the moat, the rope laddei 
thrown up and the hooked end duly caught 
upon the sill. In due course the heroine ap- 
peared at the window, bent upon her escape, 
The bars, which had been improvised for the 
purpose j wen- removed in due course } and the 
prisoner thrust her shoulders through the 
aperture. But she becanfe wje^ged ^hhlt-way. 

One of the party below scaled the 
ladder and endeavoured to assist 
her from the strange predicament f 
while on the inner side two other 
actresses lent assistance. Mile, 
Robinne was unable to extend 
any personal assistance, being 
convulsed with laughter. At last, 
after considerable prising, pushing, 
and tugging, she came through 
with a bewildering suddenness* 
The man on the ladder was 
precipitated into the moat, while 
the actress tumbled uncere- 
moniously into the waiting boat* 
the trio below breaking her fall 
slightly, though she struck one 
ts somewhat violently. 
Half dazed, she w^s picked up, 
while her would-be helper, who 
h a d b e e n i mmersed . 
swam and elung to lite 
boat, his velvet dress 
and gorgeous trap- 
pings presenting a 
somewhat sorry 
sight. After 
about an hour*s 
delay the re- 
hearsal was 
resumed w i th 
one man less in 
the boat, and 
with the window 
widened to 
e n sure 
her un- 


j « 

c H e rn'ffgte 

who i [nek fan iti n uindtftv when ur tempt inn 
=, *l, "1/ at hi /• tyrrs.S 


a dramatic 


Retold from the German by 

W. J. L. KIEHL. 

Illustrated by H. R. Millar, 

ETER MUNK and his widowed 
mother lived together in a 
very small cottage in the 
SchwarzwakL The people on 
their side of the forest were 
all either glassmakers or clock- 
makers ; but on the other 
side of the mountains they were woodcutters 
or lumbermen. But Peter Munk belonged 
to none of these ; his father had been a char- 
coal-burner, and after his death Peter, who 
was then fifteen years old, continued his 
work, Peter and all the men pn his side of 
the forest were dressed very differently from 
the lumbermen on the other side. They 
wore coloured cloth doublets with silver 
buttons and very wide, baggy breeches 
reaching down to the knees, red stockings, 
and black, high-peaked hats ; while the 
lumbermen wore grey shirts crossed by wide 
green braces that kept their black leather 
trousers in place ; they also wore high-peaked 
hats, but their greatest pride were their 
enormous boots of strong leather that reached 
almost to their hips. 

Peter Munk was by no means satisfied with 
his lot in life. Often he grumbled as he 
sat by his charcoal kiln, There were in 


VnL kML— 13 + 

particular two men whom Peter envied more 
than any others. The one was called Fat 
Ezechiel ; the other was surnamed " King 
of the Dance/' because he was far-and-away 
the best dancer in the place. Ezechiel was a 
timber merchant, reputed to be the wealthiest 
man in the Schwarzwald ; he spent all his 
evenings at the village playing for shilling 
stakes, and everyone there had the greatest 
respect for him. The Dance King was from 
Peter's own district ; with his red-stockinged 
legs he could cut such capers in the dance 
that the whole inn shook with applause. 

Oh ! how Peter did envy those two men, and 
how he wished that he was as rich as Ezechiel 
and could dance as well as the Dance King ! 

Peter grew more discontented as time went 
on, until he could bear it no longer. At last 
he recollected that when he was a child his 
mother used to tell him tales of fairies or 
mountain sprites, who would appear to 
mortals and give them gold. So he deter- 
mined to ask her to tell him such a story that 
very evening. 

Supper things were scarcely cleared away 
when Peter proffered his request \ and his 
mother, well pleased, set her spinning-wheel 
a-whirring and began : — 




" Two mountain spirits reign in this forest. 
The one is an evil spirit, called Hollander 
Michael. Many men have sold themselves 
to him for earthly riches. It is whispered 
that Fat Ezechiel and the Dance King are 
among the number, but it is quite possible 
they came by their wealth in some honest 
way ; or perhaps the other, the good spirit, 
who dwells in these mountains, gave it to 
them. This good spirit is quite different 
from Hollander Michael, and is a kindly, tiny 
little creature, no longer than my arm. The 
people call him Glassman, for those who have 
seen him say that all his clothes are made of 
glass. He lives on the highest peak of the 
mountain, called Tannenbiihl. Only those 
born on a Sunday afternoon between twelve 
and one have a chance of seeing him ; they 
must go to Tannenbiihl, and there speak 
words of incantation that call him up. You, 
Peter," she added, with a whimsical smile, 
" would have a very good chance, because 
you were born on a Sunday, shortly after the 
noon hour, if only I hadn't forgotten the 
incantation ! I can only remember the first 
three lines : — 

Treasurer of the pine-woods green, 

Full many a century thou hast seen ; 

Thine are all lands where pine-trees grow. 
But that is all I can think of ; the rest I've 
clean forgotten ! " 

Peter didn't sleep a wink that night, but 
tried all the while to find some words that 
would form the fourth line of the incantation. 
At last, towards morning, he got it : — 

Treasurer of the pine-woods green, 

Full many a century thou hast seen ; 

Thine are all lands where pine-trees grow ; 

To Sunday's child alone thou'lt show. 

So, quite early in the morning, he put on his 
Sunday things and slipped out of the house. 
It was a very long way, all up-hill, to 

A strange feeling of awe came over Peter, 
and he sped on as fast as he could. He was 
quite out of breath when he reached the 
highest part of the mountain, where the very 
tallest and thickest pine-tree he had ever 
seen reared its crown so high in the air that 
it was lost in the clouds. Here he politely 
doffed his hat and bowed low in the direction 
of the big pine. " Mr. Glassman," he said, in a 
very shaky voice, " I wish you a very good 
day." Then he waited in trepidation, but 
nothing happened. " Well," thought Peter, 
" I suppose Fll have to say the incantation 
after all." So he began : — 

Treasurer of the pine-woods green, 

Full many a century thou hast seen ; 

Thine are all lands where pine-trees grow ; 

To Sunday's child alone thou'lt show. 

d oogle 

And then Peter's eyes bulged in amaze- 
ment. From behind the giant pine came the 
strangest, daintiest little figure imaginable. 
It was only a yard high, and as transparent 
as glass. A white beard as soft and silky as 
spun-glass reached almost to its waist. Eyes 
as blue and brilliant as sapphires shone in 
the little face. 

" Well, Peter Munk," said Glassman— for 
of course it was he — " you haven't got the 
verse quite correct ; but as it is you I won't 
be so very particular this time, for I know 
all about you, and how well you have been 
working for your widowed mother. .To all 
those who have come to me I have granted 
three wishes ; the first two wishes are free, 
the last one I may refuse if I consider it better 
to do so. Now, think well before you utter 
your first wish ! " 

" Oh 1 " cried Peter, overjoyed. " I wish — 
always to have as much money in my pockets 
as Fat Ezechiel has and to be able to dance 
even better than the Dance King." 

At these words Glassman frowned and 
shook his head. " That was a very foolish 
wish, Peter, and I'm afraid it will bring you 
nothing but trouble. Still, as I've promised, 
so I will perform ; but do be more careful 
with your next wish." 

Peter felt rather crestfallen, so he thought 
awhile before saying : " I wish to own the 
best glass-hut in the whole country, and to 
have a fine large dwelling-house, with furni- 
ture and everything complete." 

" Oh, you stupid Peter Munk ! " snorted 
Glassman. " You should have asked for 
wisdom — wisdom to be able to use your new 
possessions to the best advantage." 

" But I still have a third wish," said Peter. 
" I could use that to wish for wisdom, if you 
really think it is so highly necessary." 

" Nothing of the sort," said Glassman. " I 
foresee that that first silly wish of yours is 
sure to get you into trouble, and then you 
will be glad enough to have a wish in reserve." 

With these words Glassman reached behind 
the pine-tree and brought out a heavy bag, 
which he handed to Peter. It was full of 
bright new sovereigns. " There," he said, 
" are two thousand pounds for you. The 
owner of the finest glass-hut in the district 
has just died, and his heirs are going to sell 
it, together with the dwelling-house that 
belongs to it. You can buy it from them ; 
but remember that you must work just as 
industriously at the new trade as at your old 
one, and, above all, beware of inns, and drink- 
ing, dancing, and gambling." 

So saying, Glassman disappeared, and 




Peter an home so fast that it seemed as if he 
had wings on his feet. 

To everybody's astonishment Peter Munk 
bought the glass-hut and dwelling-house 
that were being sold by auction and installed 
himself and his mother in his new, comfort- 
able quarters. Peter spent many hours every 
day in the workshop ; 
indeed, he often did 
some glass-blowing him- 
self, because he thought 
it looked so fascinating. 
The first Sunday was a 
day of triumph for him, 
He and his mother sat 
in one of the front pews 
in church, and on leav- 
ing everyone stopped 

acclaimed Dance Emperor, while the de- 
throned king slunk home in high dudgeon. 

When dancing was over and the older men 
sat down to play cards Peter took a chair at 
their table. Fat Ezechiel was one of the 
players, and Peter at once perceived that he 
must have brought plenty of money, for his 
own pockets were quite filled. All that night 
Peter played. One after the other the players 
dropped out, until only Fat Ezechiel and him- 
self were left. Peter lost all the while, but 


to speak to them, for now they were people 
of importance. In the evening Peter went 
boldly lo the inn, and as soon as the Dance 
King had finished his figure Peter took the 
floor. It was soon evident to all the spec- 
tators that the Dance King had here found 
his master Never had such wonderful 
dancing been seen, and Peter was at once 

Digitized by CiQOgJC 

the more he lost the more he gained, 

because all his money went into Ezechiers 

pockets, and, according to his first wish, he 

was always to have as much money in his 

pockets as had EzechieL At last Ezechiel 

got tired of playing and went home, and 

Peter, too, left the inn, 

Peter now began to neglect his business, so 

that very soon all the money Glassman had 

given him was gone, " But what does it 

matter?" thought Peter "As long as Fat 

EzechiePs pockets are filled I, too, have 

plenty ! ,! 

One evening he went to the inn as usual. 




" Has Fat Ezechiel come ? " he shouted, as 
he neared the door. 

" He is here all right," answered EzechiePs 
booming voice. So Peter entered and the 
innkeeper brought the cards and sat down at 
their table to watch the game. 

At first, as usual, Peter lost, and the money 
disappeared by handfuls into Ezechiel's 
capacious pockets ; but then luck turned 
and Peter began to win. He won so con- 
tinuously that he was just happily wondering 
how much he must have gained when 
Ezechiel suddenly threw a shilling on the 
table. " That is the last ! " he cried ; and a 
deep, ominous voice echoed in Peter's ear : 
" That is the LAST/" Again he won, and 
Ezechiel's last shilling disappeared into his 

" Now/' said Ezechiel, " you have been 
winning such a lot that I suppose you won't, 
mind lending me some money to go on with ? " 

" Of course I will ! " exclaimed Peter. He 
put his hand into his trousers pocket — but it 
was quite empty ! He felt in each pocket in 
turn, but there was not a single coin in any 
of them. Ezechiel and the innkeeper watched 
him in growing surprise. 

" We will help you search for the money ! " 
they cried, and roughly turned all his pockets 
inside out, but they found nothing. Then 
they became furious ; they tore the clothes off 
his back and threw him out into the muddy 

Slowly and painfully Peter picked himself 
up and began walking homeward. At that 
moment it was as if he saw a tall, shadowy 
form striding along beside him, and he heard 
the same echoing voice he had heard in the 
inn saying : " Ah, Peter Munk, I knew how 
it would be when you went to that miserly 
little Glassman. Why didn't you come to me, 
Ho lander Michael ? Come along with me 
now, and I'll soon set you up again." 

Peter cast a sidelong glance at his com- 
panion, who didn't seem so terrible, after all. 
Why shouldn't he go with him ? 

" Come along, now," reiterated Michael, 
catching hold of Peter's hand. " There is 
no time like the present, and we'll soon 
arrange this little matter between us." 

Ever faster Hollander Michael strode 
along until Peter was fairly dragged through 
the air behind him, his feet scarce touching 
the ground. Soon they were standing before 
a house that looked just like the better kind 
of farm-houses in the Schwarzwald. Michael 
opened the door and led Peter inside. 

" Sit down now," said Michael, " and we'll 
see if we can't strike a bargain." 

by Google 

" A bargain ? " gasped Peter. " I thought 
you intended to give me the money ! " 

11 Of course I intend to make you a present 
of the money," laughed Michael. " What I 
want in exchange is such a very insignificant 
little trifle that it really does not count." 

" But what is that trifle ? " cried Peter. 

" I mean that silly, fluttering heart of 
yours that is making you feel frightened art 
this very moment." 

Peter's face was livid with fear. " But," 
he stammered, " if you take out my heart I 
shall die." 

" Nonsense ! " said Michael. " Of course 
you would die if one of your clumsy surgeons 
were to cut it out ; but if I take it you won't 
even notice it ! Come, I'll show you my little 

So saying, he opened the door to the next 
room, and Peter heard a sound as of a thou- 
sand clocks ticking. All around this room were 
shelves, and on these shelves were rows of 
glass jars, in each of which a human heart 
was beating. Each jar was labelled with the 
name of the owner of the heart, and — yes — 
there was the heart of Fat Ezechiel ! And 
there, on that other shelf, was the heart of 
the Dance King ! And next to it the heart 
of the Sheriff in the nearest town ! 

" You see," said Michael, with some pride, 
" all these people have given their useless old 
hearts into my keeping. Now if, instead of 
that foolish heart, you had this in your 
breast," continued Michael, taking from a 
drawer a heart-shaped stone and displaying it 
before Peter's astonished eyes, " then you 
would have no more bother." 

" But," murmured Peter, " it would be so 
heavy, and so very cold ! " 

" Just pleasantly cool," retorted Michael. 
" Come, now, I'll give you a hundred thousand 
gold pieces and let you travel all over the 

" A hundred thousand ! Ah ! " cried Peter, 
" I never knew there was so much money in 
the world. Yes, if you please, Hollander 
Michael, you may take away my troublesome 
old heart and put in your stone." 

" All right ! " cried Michael. " Now we'll 
just take another glass of wine together to 
clinch the bargain." 

They returned to the other room and 
Michael filled his own and Peter's glass to the 
brim. Peter tossed off his at a single gulp ; 
then drowsiness overcame him and he fell 
into a deep slumber. 

When he awoke he was in a gorgeous 
carriage drawn by four splendid horses. From 

Original from 



the windows he saw a strange, flat landscape 
without any hills whatever. Peter was now 
clad as were the wealthy gentlemen of the 
period. He placed his hand on his breast — 
no ! he could not notice the slightest tremor ; 
all was cool and quiet. He felt in his pockets, 
and brought out a purse filled with gold and a 
portfolio crammed with bills of exchange on 
the largest business houses throughout the 
world. The carriage, too, contained pockets 
that were filled with gold and silver. 

This was but the beginning of Peter's 
travels. All over Europe he went, and saw 
every beautiful sight. But never did he get 
one thrill of real enjoyment out of it, so that 
at last eating and drinking were his only 
pleasures, and he slept half the day from sheer 
boredom. Finally he imagined that if he re- 
turned to the Schwarzwald and took up some 
employment he would be more satisfied. 
When, in due course, he did reach his home- 
land the news spread through the villages, 
and everyone vied with each other to do him 
honour. Even Ezechiel and the innkeeper 
had forgotten their grievance against him ; 
for who could withstand such wealth as now 
was his ? Peter now settled down on the 
other side of the forest and ostensibly became 
a timber merchant, but his real business was 
money-lending. When his debtors couldn't 
pay him he had them sold up at once by the 
bailiff and driven out into the woods, and 
when their wives and children came to beg 
for mercy he set his two fierce dogs at them. 
It is true he had taken his old mother to live 
with him, but this was not from filial love, 
for his stony heart was incapable of affection. 
When he noticed that she sometimes gave 
some bread, or a small coin, to a beggar he 
flew into the most terrible rage and forbade 
her to squander his possessions. 

One day while Peter was out his mother 
stood at the house door, when an old man came 
toiling up the forest-path with a heavy load of 
firewood on his back. He was bent with age 
and hard work, and his breath came in gasps. 

" You poor old creature! " Peter's mother 
cried. " Come and rest for a moment on this 
bench by the door. An aged man like you 
ought not to drag such heavy loads." 

" Good mother," quavered the old wood- 
cutter, taking the proffered seat, " I have 
come a long way and am very thirsty, and I 
would be grateful to you if you would give 
me a cup of water." 

She ran into the house and came back with 
a slice of bread and a cup of milk. " There," 
she said, with a kind smile, " that will do you 
more good than water." 

Digitized by (jOOQ I C 

" Thank you ever so much ! " cried the old 
man, with tears in his eyes. " Surely you 
will be well rewarded for such kindness." 

" Rewarded ! " screamed an angry voice, 
as Peter appeared in the doorway. " Yes, 
indeed, she'll get her reward this very instant." 

So saying, he struck his old mother a cruel 
blow on the forehead with his heavy metal 
yard-measure. Lifeless she sank to the 
ground, and Peter, although he had no heart, 
knew very well that he had committed a 
heinous crime that might bring him to the 
gallows. His first thought was for his own 

" You won't mention this little accident, 
will you ? " he cried, as he turned to the 
beggar. But, lo ! instead of the small bent 
figure, there loomed before him a towering 
form, with blazing blue eyes as large as soup- 
plates. It was Glassman, who now appeared 
as the avenging spirit of the mountains ! He 
seized Peter by the shoulder and shook him to 
and fro, crying, in an awful voice, " You 
wretched earthworm ! The measure of your 
wickedness is full ! If within three days you 
do not repent of your evil deeds I will return 
and rid the world of you ! " With a final 
shake that seemed to break every bone in his 
body, he cast Peter from him. 

When Peter regained consciousness it was 
night. Gradually he recollected all that 
had happened. Not once since he had bar- 
tered away his heart had he known real happi- 
ness. In spite of his wealth he had not known 
a moment's joy ; and now he had killed his 
mother, and himself had only three more 
days to live. 

As he sat and mused in the moonlight it 
seemed to him that he heard a tender voice 
whispering : " Peter, get back your soft, 
warm heart ! " And it seemed to him as if 
it were his mother's own voice, sounding from 

When morning dawned Peter was on his 
way to Tannenbiihl. As he reached the great 
pine he spoke the incantation, half expecting 
that Glassman would not heed him, but at 
the last words the well-known little figure 
appeared. It was, however, a sorrowful 
little Glassman. 

" Why have you come, Peter Munk ? " he 

" I have come for my third wish," said 
Peter. " You will remember you promised 
to grant me one wish more ; and now I wish 
I had my own heart back again instead of 
this stony one ! " 

" That is a good wish," cried Glassman, 
looking just a trifle less sorrowful; "a very 

U I I I ■_« I I 






by Google 

good wish, and I am only sorry it is not in 
rant It. It was not to me you 
bartered your heart, but 
to Hollander Michael, 
and I have no power in 
his domain. You cannot 
get it back by force, 
that is certain. The only 
way is to outwit Hol- 
lander Michael j and I 
will tell you how," 

Glassman now un- 
folded his plans to Peter 
and gave him a pure 
white crystal cross, say* 
ing : " If Michael tries 
to harm you just hold 
this cross aloft before 
him, and he will be un- 
able to touch you/ 1 

Peter thanked Glass- 
man, placed the cross in 
his breast pocket, walked 
to the well-remembered 
spot, and called three 
times for Hollander 
Michael. Then the giant 
hand shot up from the 
depth and carried him 
down below- 

u I know what you've 
come for/' said Hollan- 
der Michael. " You have 
killed your mother, and 
now require a lot of 
money to carry you to 
lands beyond the seas," 

"You're a good 
guesser ! " cried Peter. 
" That's exactly what 
I want/' 

Without saying a word, 
Michael went to a corner 
of the room, opened a 
huge iron-bound chest, 
and took from it roll 
upon roll of gold coins, 
which he placed upon 
the table, 

" Thanks/' said Peter, 
with a grin. u You have 
certainly got immense 
hoards of money, and, 
no doubt, you are a very 
clever fellow, Michael, 
But in one respect you 
have tricked me. You 
told me you would take 
.out my troublesome heart 




and put a nice cool stone In 
its place. Well, you never 
did that ? and I've been 
carrying this foolish old 
heart with me all the while ! ' ' 

11 Thai's a lie! " shouted 
Michael. " 111 show you 
your own heart in the jar 
on my shelf ! " With that 
he strode into the next 
room and brought out the 
jar labelled " Peter Munk/' 
in which was a heart that 
palpitated wildly. " You 
see now/' he cried, trium- 

11 Oh, that's quite an old 
i rick ," said Peter, sneer- 
ingly, " Those hearts are 
simply made of wax/' 

"Wax, indeed!" cried 
Michael, wrath fully. " Can 
wax palpitate like that ? 
You shall feel how different 
it is when that old heart 
of yours is in your bosom 
again ! " 

With these words he 
opened Peter's shirt, thrust 
in his hand, and pulled out 
the heart of stone \ then he 
took the living heart from 
the jar and carefully put 
it back into Peter's breast. 
Ah, how joyfully the poor 
heart was beating to be back 
in its right place again ! 

11 You see that I was 
right/' shouted Michael. 
M And now I'll put the com- 
fortable stone back again,' 1 
But he stopped shorty for 
Peter had taken out his 
crystal cross and held it aloft before him, 
meanwhile uttering a prayer for help. An 
agony of fright now seized the evil spirit 
of the mountains; he shrank back into 
the farthest corner of the room, dwindling 
in size and shrivelling up until he writhed 
like a worm upon the flour. Peter, mean- 
while, fled from the house, and ran for 
his very life to Tannenbiihl, There he flung 
himself upon the ground and wept ; for now 
that the excitement of his escape was over 
his soft, warm heart was breaking for all 
the wrong he had done. 

"Why do you weep, Peter ? ■' asked a 
kindly little voice. " Have you not been 
able to get back vour heart ? " 

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" Oh, good Glass-man," cried Peter, " it is 
just because I have my feeling heart back 
again that I am filled with sorrow ! Oh ! My 
dear old mother, how often I must have 
grieved her ! And now I have killed her ! 
Oh, Glassman ! Please have pity on me. 
Don't wait any longer, but kill me at onci^ 
for I am not worthy to live. Neither you 
nor my mother can ever forgive me I " 

li But we do forgive you, Peter ! " said his 
mother's own loving voice. 

" And you must live to set right all the 
wrong you have done," added Glassman ; 
and when Peter raised his eyes, through a 
mist of tears he saw Glassman and his mother 
standing hand-in-hand before him, 




" It is as easy as counting," is an expression one 
sometimes hears. But mere counting may be puzzling 
at times. Take the following simple example. Suppose 

you have just bought 
twelve postage- 
stamps, in this form 
— three by four — and 
a friend asks you to 
oblige him with four 
stamps, all joined 
together — no stamp 
hanging on by a 
mere corner. In how 
many different ways 
is it possible for you 
to tear off those four stamps ? You see, you can 
give him, 1, 2, 3, 4, or 2, 3, 6, 7, or 1, 2, 3, 6, or 1, 2, 3, 7, 
or 2, 3, 4, 8, and so on. Can you count the number of 
different ways in which those four stamps might be 
delivered ? There are not many more than fifty ways, 
so it is not a big count. Can you get the exact number ? 














Some years ago a man told me he had spent one 
hundred English silver coins in Christmas - boxes, 
giving every person the same amount, and it cost him 
exactly £1 10s. id. Can you tell just how many 
persons received the present, and how he could have 
managed the distribution ? That odd penny looks 
queer, but it is all right. 

Here is a pretty little puzzle that only requires 
twelve pennies or counters. Arrange them in a circle, 
as shown in the illustra- 
tion. Now take up one 
penny at a time and, 
passing it over two 
pennies, place it on the 
third penny. Then take 
up another single penny 
and do the same thing, 
and so on, until, in six 
such moves, you have 
the coins in six pairs in 
the positions 1, 2, 3, 4, 
5,6. You can move in 
either direction round 
the circle at every play and it does not matter whether 
the two jumped over are separate or a pair. This is 
quite easy if you use just a little thought. 

" Mother, I wish you would give me a bicycle/' 
said a girl of twelve the other day. 
j. y* • " I do not think you are old enough yet, my dear," 
/ *S 1 was the reply. " When I am only three times as old 
as you are you shall have one." 

Now, the mother's age is forty-five years. When 
may the young lady expect to receive her present ? 

In the following stream of words are concealed 
eighteen fishes. How many can you land ? This is 
how you catch them. The words u Mack ere long " 

conceal the word " mackerel," and the fish " cod " 
will be caught in the words " tobacco, Dick." Now, 
-see if you can land the remaining sixteen. 

44 1 expect Dick and Mack ere long — they are coming 
to supper, Charles," said Mr. Wilkins, walking to and 
fro. " A cheerful fellow is Dick — never melancholy 
or sombre among his friends, but as bright as his 
prattling child. He is in that tram-car, perhaps, 
though he does not often choose that manner of 
travelling." Dick soon arrived, and another ring at 
the bell brought Mack, who had a certain solemn air. 
He is reading for the Bar, believing that he has forensic 
power, though he really does not possess a whit. In 
golf he distinguished himself, but, if we take his word, 
fishing is his great point. Dick is very popular at 
routs and balls, and has such ubiquitous habits. 
44 Have some tobacco, Dick," said Mr. Wilkins, 4t or a 
piece of this cake, which has almonds in it." 

174.— AN ENIGMA. 
I plucked them in the forest as they grew ; 
I held them in my hands and gave to you ; 
But though you took and cast them on the floor, 
They cling unto my hands for evermore. 
Oh, could I but behead them, they'd be freed, 
And I could give them unto those who plead. 

Once upon a time there was a town in the South of 
Europe surrounded by walls with four gates, and 
everybody who passed one of these gates either going 
in or coming out was required to pay a penny. A 
traveller one day paid his penny and went through 
the first of the gates. He spent one half of the money 
he had remaining, and went out by the same gate, 
again paying a penny. The next day he did the same, 
passing in and out by the second gate, and spending 
half his remaining cash while in the town. On the 
two following days he exactly repeated the proceeding, 
going in and coming out by the third and fourth gates 
respectively. When he left the town for the fourth 
time he had only one penny left. How much had he 
at first ? 

The three basins each contain the 
number of lumps of 
sugar andjthe cups are 
empty. If I transfer 
to every cup one - 
eighteenth of the 
number of lumps con- 
tained in each basin, 
I then find that each 
basin holds twelve 
more lumps than each 

of the cups. How many lumps are there in each 
at the start ? 

^ ^* ^ 
&fi ^f ff* 

by L^OOgle 

The year was . . . . , the lane was still ; 
The .... moon shone athwart the hill. . ^ 
A . . . . was urged, a whispered word, 
And now a merry .... is heard. 7 

The words to be inserted in the blank spaces all 
contain the same letters, differently arranged. 




Solutions to Last Month s Puzzles. 

Christmas Eve at HolliLury Hall. 

Aunt Nancy's Box. — The seven labels, of which 
fragments were shown, represented the following 
railway stations; (MAD)ELEY, T(AUNT)ON, 

The Motor-Car Fare,— Mr. Smithers should have 
paid fifteen shillings as his correct share of the fare. 
He only shared half the distance travelled for three 
pounds, and, therefore, should pay half of thirty 
shillings* — — — 

The Three 
Squares* — Arrange 
the strips as shown 
in the illustration 
to form the three 
squares. The longer 
strips are those that cross in the mddle. 

quence. The grand total will always be 45 plus three 
times the central number. 

Cats and Dogs.— This puzzle can be solved in as 
few as Ave moves for the cats, and the same number for 
the dogs, as follows : — 

Cats, 3 to 4 4 to 6 1 to 8 8 to 7 6 to 5 

Dogs, 7 to ti 3 to 2 5 to 4 4 to 3 3 to 1 

Cutting the Pudding.— 
The illustration shows how 
the pudding may be cut into 
two parts of the same size 
and shape. The direction 
of the cuts admit 5 of slight 
variation, but under very 
limited conditions, into 
which we will not now 

The Thirty-three Pearls,— The value of the large 
central pearl must have been £3,000* The pearl at 
one end (from which they increased in value by £100) 
was £1,400 ; the pearl at the other end, £600. 

The Hydroplane Puzzle. — The machine must 
have gone at the rale of seven- twenty-fourths of a mile 
per minute and the wind travelled ftve-twenty-fourths 
of a mile per minute. Thus, going, the wind would 
help and the machine would do twelve-tweniy-iourtlis 
or half a mile a minute, and returning only two- 
twenty -fourths, or one -twelfth of a mile per minute, 
Hit wind being against it. The machine without any 
wind could, therefore, do the ten miles in thirty-four 
and two- sevenths minutes, since it could do seven 
miles in twenty-four minutes. 

The Chessboard Puzzle. 
— The pieces may be lit ted 
together as shown in the 
illustration to form a perfect 

The Nine Orcles.— Place the S in the centre and 
the arrangement of the other figures is of im tnn.u- 

The Great Scramble.— 
The smallest number of 
sugar ■ plums that u ill fulfil 
the conditions is 26,880. The 
five boys obtained respectively — Harry, 2,863 ; 
Herbert, 6,335; Charlie, 2,438 j Reggie, 10,294; 
Teddy, 4,950. There was a little trap concealed in 
the words near the end, " one-fifth of the same," that 
seemed at first sight to upset the whole account of the 
affair. But a little thought will show that the words 
could only mean ** one-fifth of five-eighths— the 
fraction last mentioned " 1 that is, one-eighth of the 
three-quarters that Herbert and Harry had last 

In this puzzle there were fifty- three words to be 
deciphered. Here are the solutions : 1. Catharine, 
2, Anagram , 3, Authoress, 4. Learned, 5, Under - 
standing* 6. Consternation. 7, Clergyman. 8* Be- 
trayal. 9. Yourself, 10, Fire-escape, 11- Picturesque, 
rz. Parishioners. 13. Punishment* 14* Sweetheart. 
15. Daughter. 16. Diplomacy, 17, Trocadero. 
18. Rhapsody. 19. Orchestra. 20, Chandelier, 
21 P Astronomer, 22. Constellation. 23. Candidate, 
24, Matrimony. 25, Ancestor. 26, Telegraph, 27. Peni- 
tentiary. 28, Anarchists. 29. Revolution, 30. Surgeon, 
31* Funeral, 32- Wealth. 33. Sapolio. 34. Antiseptic. 
3$. Pastilles. 36. Potentates, 37. Evangelist. 38, Pres- 
byterian. 39. Breath. 40. Adherents. 41;. Doctrine, 
42. Transubstantiation. 43. Misrepresentation . 44. 
Lawyers 45. Platitudes, 46. Aphorism. 47. Apothe- 
caries, 48- Amethyst, 49, Elegant. 50. Precious. 
51. Darling. 52. Worshipper. 53, Archibald. 

Last month we gave five examples of " Div-a-let," 
or Division by Letters. Here are the answers : 
1. Discourage. 2. Pleasuring. 3, Handiworks. 

4. Complaints. 5. Cn imported. 

Other Solutions will be found 
Vol jelvii .^14, 

Here is the solution of the End-game referred to in 

the story eniiiU'd " T'liu Winning Move,' 1 which 

appeared in the last number : — 

I. B to Kt #, 1. Q takes B (or a) ; 2. Q takes P* f 

2. Q to R sq, (or b) ; 3, Q to R 7, ch.* T 3, K takes Q : 
4. K takes P, ch., 4, K to Kt sq. ; K- R to R 8, mate, 

(a)l . . . LQtoK sq. ; 2. Q to H $*, 2. Q takes 
Q ; |. R takes R P, and mates in a few moves with 

(b) 2, . , . 3. P takes Q \ 3. R takes R P, and mates 
in a few moves wiih R to R 8. 

If White plavs 1. R takes R 1\ then 1. R to R 8, 
ch. ; 2. K takes R (if White refuses to Uiki j the R. 
Black draws by i>erpetual check), 2. Q to R sq., ch, ; 

3. K to Kt sq., 3. Q to R 8, ch, ; 4. K takes Q, stale- 

I have not given an absolutely exhaustive analysis 
above, but I think the rest is perfectly obvious, 

• The three sacrifices of the queen reterred to in 
the story,— Ravmund Allen. 


TRE total weight indicated will be the same 
whether the bird is flying or perching, 
in the u Curiosities " peg* s 



And tlie Strokes TW Made It. 



[The photographs accompanying the text constitute the unique feature of these article*. Each stroke was set up 
on I he table by Mr, John Roberts personally, and the white lines illustrating the run of the balls were placed in 
position hy him. The spot on the cue- ball shows the exact place where that ball muat be struck 1o make the 
stroke depicted, and the line running from the cue-ball to the object-ball shows the Line of aim for the stroke.] 


WILL begin the present 
article with a stroke which 
enables the balls to be brought 
from unfavourable positions 
into the lucrative scoring 
area at the spot end. The two 
object-balls are tight against 
the top cushion, and the angle of the stroke 
is shown to perfection in the photograph 
(No. i). Now, I admit it is in the game 
to score a fine kiss cannon by making an 
exquisitely -accurate contact with the first 
object, but such a stroke is not the game, 
because its execution is so difficult— especially 
from a positional standpoint — that it would 
often prove too much for even a first-class 
billiardist. It is quite bad enough to be 
compelled to go out for something exception- 
ally difficult when the lie of the balls offers 
nothing better, but when, as now, there is 
" another method," as they say in the cookery 

books, then the man who knows the game 
plays for what is comparatively simple and 
safe. This is the run- through cannon illus- 
trated, a stroke played with the trifling 
divergence from central cue contact shown, 
and with quite a full contact on the white. 
The cue-ball will then run steadily along the 
cushion and drop full on the red just hard 
enough to move it an inch or two towards the 
pocket, while the object-ball will take the 
course round the table shown by the lines on 
the right of the picture, and finally come to 
rest almost exactly where the red ball was 
originally. A pretty stroke, and one well 
worth practising, as it shows what can be 
done by accurate ball -striking, good cue man- 
ship, and a knowledge of strength and angles. 
But why, it may well be asked, do I take 
so much pains to bring all three balls to the 
head of the table, no matter how awkwardly 
they lie ? The answer is simple — because it 
gives me command of the balls at the spot 





of the table. Move the cue- ball an 
inch to the left, and to retain posi- 
tion at the head of the table the 1 
winning hazard has to be made with 
enough screw on the cue-ball to 


end, that " top-of-t he-table game " which I 
invented, and which, in the hands of a first- 
class professional , is the quickest and most 
profitable scoring method known. But, like 
everything else devised to produce compara- 
tively rapid returns, the top-of-the-table 
game carries with it considerable risk except 
in the hands of the few who thoroughly 
understand it. It is, and the analogy is very 
close } the " get rich quickly " idea introduced 
into billiards, and the average amateur — aye, 
and even the capable amateur— would be well 
advised to drop " top-of-the-table " billiards 
as soon as ever he can arrange for a losing 
hazard and a return to the baulk end with all 
the space in the " D " at his disposal in which 
to arrange the cue-ball for his succeeding 

The overwhelming force of my argument 
becomes manifest in our next two illustrations 
(Nos, 2 and 3), which prove the astonishing 
difference even a single inch makes in top-of- 
the-table play. In each case the red is on 
the billiard-spot, and the position of the white 
object-ball remains unchanged, simply be- 
cause a cannon would ruin position at "the 
top," although it 
would be the stroke 
beginners would dash 
at without a moment's 
hesitation. But the 
game is a red winning 
hazard into the corner 
pocket in each case, 
The first stroke is 
played with enough 
pace and run ot\ the 
cue -ball to carry it 
through the red and 
into position for a 
simple cannon played 
from the opposite side no. 4.— ax i 

no + 3-— see no, 2. 

bring it back, as shown by the white line on the 
left of the photo. Top-of-the-table billiards 
is full of similar positions where an inch, or 
even less^ makes all the difference in the 
billiard world between one stroke and another 
as regards execution. It follows, therefore, 
that such a phase of the game is for those 
who cannot hope to master its constantly 
varying problems — who can only hope to 
dabble in it — a dangerous and expensive 
habit. Even in the best class amateur 
billiards top-of-the-Uibk: play has lost many 
more games than it has ever won, simply 
because failure to score so often leaves the 
red ball on the brink of a corner pocket, and 
gives the steady, all - round hazard striker 
an opening after his own heart. 

But provided it is 
not carried to excess, 
provided the amateur 
does not take unwar- 
rantable risks in the 
vain endeavour to reap 
a professional harvest 
of points from an ideal 
top-of-the-table leave, 
then the opportunity 
of making a short- 
scoringsequenceat the 
' f top" may well be 
grasped, as it provides 
a pretty and a^ive il le 
of-the-table roiitfifiHtP a I feftttVast to that open 




he makes the cannon and 
sends the red ball over the 
pocket as indicated by the 
white line, If he happens 
to handle the stroke a little 
badly, so that the cue-ball 
makes a finish contact on 
the far side of the white 
and is left very close to the 
cushion, while the red stops 
just where a fine, clipping 




game which my readers must make 
. the backbone of their billiards, Here 
let me define what top- of -t he-table 
billiards really means. It is 3 of course., 
a series of alternating red winning 
hazards and cannons, but the under- 
lying principle is that the cue-ball must 
always be kept above the other two, as 
shown in the photograph (No, 4) of an irii al 
top-of-the-table opening. As a matter of fact, 
this position is handled by playing what is 
known to professors as * ( the postman's 
knock," the cannon being played in such a 
way that a full contact is made with the 
white, which results in a double kiss between 
that ball and the cue-ball. This leaves tbe 
white practically in the same position, brings 
the cue-ball away just far 
enough to enable the red 
winner into the corner 
pocket to be played quite 
easily , to bring the cue- 
ball into practically the 
same position on the other 
side of the table. In the 
hands of a first - class 
expert this sequence may 
sometimes be exploited to 
the extent of making five 
or six consecutive cannons 
and hazards without mov- 
ing the object white to an 
appreciable extent, but 
trare is no need for even 
the best to worry about 
such an extreme of posi- 
tional exactitude. 

The ordinary player has 
done quite well enough if 

Digitized By VjOOQIC 

NO* ?•— A 


WO, 6,— SEE NO. 5. 

stroke is needed to pocket it, then ? if the 
average cucman is wise, he plays the dead 
easy losing hazard which is sure to be offered, 
and quits the top-of-the-table game. 

By way of contrast there are many strokes 
which enable top-of-the-table position to be 
obtained, and a couple of such scoring and 
positional efforts are now before us, The 
first (No. 5) is the easier of the two. It is a 
cannon made by clipping the edge of the red 
ball very fine, with a considerable amount of 
right side on the cue-ball. 
A five shot might happen 
here, but the idea is to 
just bring the red over 
towards the pocket and 
make the cannon. Then, 
next stroke , down goes 
the red j and the way is 
prepared for a typical 
top - of - the - table scoring 

The next stroke illus- 
trated (No, 6) demands a 
good deal of left side on 
the cue -ball, and quite 
a fullish contact with the 
red. This brings the red 
across the table as shown 
by the middle line of the 
three, while the cue-ball, 
helped by the side, comes 
NON* Original frooff the cushion and scores 




the cannon. The least mis- 
tiike in ball-to-ball contact 
must be avoided, as balls in 
this position are very liable 
to kiss. 

Kiss strokes are often 
played in connection with 
top - of - the - table billiardsj 
and very pretty some of 
them are. The example now 

two cushions as shown, and make the cannon 
on the red ball, which is almost stationary at 
the instant of scoring. I have had the ball 
contact for this stroke illustrated (No, S) s as 
this is quite the most important part of the 
whole thing, A kiss cannon of a very different 
type is next depicted (No. 9), as the cue-ball 
lies quite eLse to the red, which is tight 
against the side cushion. Score by striking 
the cue- ball sharp and below its cent re , and 
making a nearly full contact with the red. 
This will cause the white to rebound and 
make the cannon, at the same time driving 


before us (No, 7) 
is a typical 
specimen. A fine 
ball -to- ball can- 
non is almost im- 
possible, and the 
proper stroke is 
a kiss cannon. 
It is quite simple , 
and easy enough 
for the beginner. 
Just a shade of 
right side on the 
cue- ball to help 
it to get off the 
cushions in time, 
and a shade less 
than half-ball contact with the white. Play 
slowly, and the cue-ball will come round off the 


the red ball along the side cushion in 
the direction of the top pocket, A 
good stroke, and one of a type 
which is often " on/' but passes un- 
recognized by the inexperienced. 

Something very difficult indeed 
now enters into my remarks on top- 
of-the-table billiards, I allude to the 
slow screw cannon depicted in our 
next photograph (No. 10). The angle 
of the balls is shown to perfection, 
and the idea is to make a gentle screw 
cannon which brings the object white 


ne round o 

round off two cushions, and sends the cue- 
ball on to the re J just hard enough to move 









it but two or three inches, thus 
bringing all three balls together 
and setting up a position from 
which they may be coaxed 
back again to the " top " pure 
and simple. I repeat my 
warning regarding the diffi- 
culty of this stroke, but 
advanced amateurs can prac- 
tise it to their hearts' content, 
as it provides an admirable 
exercise in controlling com- 
bined screw and side with well- 
judged strength and accuracy 
of ball contact. 

Another stroke at the top of 
the table which looks very like 
two or three we have already examined, but which is 
really quite different, is set up ift our next photo- 
graph (No, 11), Here the cannon presented off the 
spotted red ball is a little too " wide M to be played 
gently enough to place the red over the corner 
pocket facing the player. So the cue-ball is struck 
a trifle below its centre, not nearly low enough to 
create a distinct screw effect, however, and hard 
enough to bring the red into position over the 
opposite corner pocket. This class of stroke should 
be mastered by all amateurs, as it is of the free 
description which does not demand ultra-delicate 
cuemanship, and is always occurring in actual play. 

Again the class of stroke undergoes a complete 
change— variety is endless at the top of the table — 
and we are faced by a cannon (No. 12) which 
demands a maximum of running side for its successful 
manipulation. The object is struck finer than half 
ball, with as much left side on the cue-ball as the 
player can impart, and the cannon of! the top cushion 

(To be concluded.) 

then becomes a certainty. The object white will travel over 
to the left of the red, and a position will accrue which 
gives a possibility of manoeuvring the spheres over towards 
the vicinity of the spot in a few strokes. Even if this is 
not the case, the amateur has not the least cause to feel 
disappointed. A simple cannon is sure to be left, with the 
halls so close together that he can manage to leave another 
easy shot. Nothing better can be desired, as there is no 
greater billiard pitfall for the amateur than attempting too 
much to obtain or retain ideal top-of-t he-table position. 
Sooner or later there comes a time when the best of us are 
obliged to suspend operations at the spot end, and only 
those who have made a life study of the game can hope 
to prolong their stay at the " top " when the matter is 
at all difficult and complicated. 

It follows, therefore, that certain strokes are frequent Iv 
in request to give scoring effect to the losing hazard which 
takes the rue man to the other end of the table. These 
hazards are of all types. Many of them are plain ball, others 
of the screw variety, and a fair sprinkling of follow-through 

strokes will also have to be 
played when getting away from 
the " top." One of these, a 
f oil ow - through 1 oser, played 
with top and side, will serve 
to conclude this article. The 
photograph (No, 13) illus- 
trating position and the spot 
on the cue-ball which must be 
struck is one of the most suc- 
cessful of the series, and so 
is the following illustration 
(No. 14) of the ball-to-ball 
contact. It only remains for 
me to insist yet again on 
the importance of smooth, 
true cue delivery, and the 
stroke becomes one every player 
can make. 


C* rtrul I r '■ Original from 



[ Wt shall be glad to receive Contributions to this section^ and to pay for such as are accepted. ] 

designed by Mr* Gould, who is 
a great lover of dogs and takes 
immense pleasure in his travels 
with them.— Mr. L, M. Ed holm, 
4,624, Figneroa Street, Los 
Angeles, California, (LS,A, 


WESTERNIZED as Japan is, there still survive 
curious superstitions among the country people, 
one of which is tree- worshipping The big tree shown 
in the photograph is an okl camphor tree whose stem 
is naturally divided into four. People believe that if 
they pay homage to this tree when they are ill they will 
soon recover from illness ; but when they do regain 
their health by doing so they must present to the 
spirit oi the tree a torii (a wooden shrine-^ate) as a 
token of thanks. Notice a few wooden tor its in front 
of the tree and several small ones on the stems, — Mr. 
K. Sakamoto, ig f Tsuji-Kuru Cho, Yarnada, Ise, Japan, 


A RATHER unusual manner of Locomotion is 
the dog-cut of Mr. Edwin J. Gould, a cripple, 
who has travelled 
over most of the 
Western States, He 
is now on bis way 
from San Diego to 
Portland, Oregon, a 
distance of sixteen 
hundred and fifty 
miles- The dogs are 
harnessed, not in the 
ordinary way in front 
of the cart, but in the 
rear, and shove the 
vehicle along. Mr. 
Gould sits in the cart 
and steers it by a 
wheel similar to the 
steering apparatus of 
a motor ■ car* T he 


A FRIEND of mine P who 
has an aviary contain * 
ing canaries, placed inside it 

an empty cham- 
pagne bottle, 011 the 
top of which he 
put a small tin con- 
taining seed and so 
forth. The object 
in so. doing was to 
prevent the mice 
from devouring the 
food, but a few 
months ago it was 
noticed that one 
of the birds had 
placed pieces of hay, 
feathers, and other 
material on the top 
of the bottle, and in 


ou tf it T 

is made 

for this 

and was 

a few days' time 
these grew into a 
lovely nest, beauti- 
fully lined with small 
feathers, and the 
bird laid four eggs, 
on whici. she was 
sitting at the time 
I took the photo- 
graph. People in 
this district con- 
sider this a mo^t 
curious thing. Have 
any of your readers 
ever heard or seen 
anvthinfT of l he 
sort ?— Mr. Thomas 
Clare, 7, Poller 
Street, Spondon, 






TI 111 science of rhcini^lrv i- ^enrrLiUv believed !o 
hold the palm for sesquiiie* Lilian descriptions, 
htu the accompanying word from Higher Mathematics 
will surdy lake >mne U;itin^ : Cnhvper>ymjiietriiC0- 
an I ifxirLilleLcjntK'Jicalisatiooal^raphicwy* Tills piece 
of oratory contains sixty letters* seventeen different 


THIS little puzzle 
plexity to would 
tin nt to she onlookers* 

has caused considerable ptr- 
■ be solvers, and much merri- 
I have never seen it in any 
publication, and 
only heard of it a 
short time ago. The 
problem is to place 
a button or any 
small object on 
seven pants with- 
out touching the 
same point twice. 
The start can be 
nvLde at any poim, 
the button being 
pushed to the 
further extremity 
of the line, but no 
point is to be used 
the second time as a starling point. The solution will 
be given next month. — Mr. Hugh li.Shott, &, Forest 
Place, Pittsneld, Mass., U.S.A. 


CAN any of your readers explain the following 
curiosity ? Last autumn, on a particularly 
boisterous day, the leaves of an Ainpelopsis Vcitchi 
were being blown ofT a high wall of our house, and in 
at some upper windows at right -angles to the wall, 
lining iulo a small room I found several lying on the 
floor. They were crisp and fresh, and had evidently 
just blown off. You may judge of my amazement 
when on one of them, in rich brown colour like I he 
autumn tinting on the 

h.Ll. i b-AV. sLilldlllg Oll1 

distinctly the letters 
ADM IRA and Ion- 
brown lines similar to 
those on a GJ\0. 
stamp. The letters 
looked almost as it they 
had been branded on it, 
and were also distin- 
guishable on the under- 
side of the leaf. There 
hud been absolutely no 
pressure of any kind 
on the leaf, which was 
fresh and crisp as it 
had just come from the 

twig, I have shown it to several people, including a 
Doctor of Science and photographers, none of whom 
can give a satisfactory theory. My own opinion is 
that it was a natural photograph resulting from some 
unusual combination of circumstances. There had 
been heavy rain a few days previously, and, supposing 
a wet piece of newspaper, or an envelope with the 
Admiralty postmark, had by any chance blown against 
the wall and been ca ught there in some way, might 
Dot such a result be possible ? I send you a rough 

ones, and twenty -six syllables. With some practice 
it can be uttered in under six seconds {my record i> 
five and two- fifths by stop- watch). The precise 
meaning of the word takes some thinking out ; as it 
stands it aptly portrays the effect of solid geometry 
on a vigorous intellect* Can this be beaten ?— Mr. 
A. G. Blake, Rossall School, Fleetwood, Lanes. 

drawing of the leaf as it is now when pressed, I am 
only sorry I did not photograph it at the time-— Mr. 
J. M. Stewart, 36* Frognal, Humps I cad, N\W\ 

A f B, C, and D were playing solo whist, A had the 
following hand dealt to him ; — 

Diamonds : Ace, king* queen, knave. 

Spades : Ace, king, queen. 

Hearts ; Ace, kin*;. 

Clubs : King, knave, cj, 7, 
A called Solo, and did not make a trick. Find the 
dealer and place the hands to beat it. The solution 
will be given next month* 


Thr card under fined tvins the fritk. Th*. card wittwdiateff 

bfHCHth is hd t& the nfjct trfck. 


Clubs 3 
Hrarti f f 
Spartcs king 
Diamond* ace 
Heart* 4 
Diamonds 5 
Clubs 4 

S 1 1 : 1 1 '. 1 -, g 


Clubs 6 
Hearts 6 
Spndes knave 
Diamonds 6 
Hearts 7 
Hearts 10 
Diamonds qn. 


Chilis ac* 
Hearts 5 
Diamonds 4 
DLi mum Is 3 
Heart* a 
HetMs qnren 
Diamond £ kf. 


Clubs king 
He arts kiiEive 
Sondes 3 
Diamonds 7 
Spades 6 
Diamonds S 
Diamond* kg- 

If V trump* with tlic ijnccn. PmIiviihU th-- rn > -f iLi;ini"Vu!s ; 
if V 1 rumps with the 7 or o,, H over-trumps hi ehbtr case, V 
niflkrs only the queen of trumps. 

THE following is the solution of the chess problem 
with the above title which appeared hist month :— 
Black* Win u 

1. Rx Kt t ch 1. K B % 

2. Q x R, ch 2. K * Q 

3. RxR, ch 3- Q-K] 

4. RxQ, ch 4- r*K 

5. Kt— K B 7 5. P—K 4 

6. Kt x P, ch 6. K— Q 3 

7. R— Q 7, niMte 

It will be remembered that the Chris I Lin (White) 
was playing the Devil (Black), and that Black was to 
play anil mate in seven moves. The Christian main- 
tained thut I he Pcvil could not fairly claim the game 
with this mate, and Satan allowed the objection. 
What was it ? It will be seen on playing out the game 
thai the mate is (here, but thai the pk-as uti ihe hoard 
form a [perfect cross. The Devil was supposed to be 
unable to make the sifjn of ihe cross, and therefore 
he could not complete the mate, and the Christian 
was saved. 


THE photograph of u Old Man Rock " reproduced 
in a recent issue was taken by Mr. A. Winton boatcher, 
of Ceres, Cape Province, South Africa, who is the owner 

of the cQ^ftf^tri 3 1 from 


The intensely dramatic Story, 


on the following pages, has been filmed for 
the Cinematograph Theatres throughout 
the country as No. 2 of a series entitled : 


No. 1 of this series was 


published in our January number under the title, 


Our readers should not miss the opportunity of seeing these 
films, which are being taken by The Solograph Film Company, 
and which will provide some of the most original and 
striking effects ever shown on the screen. 

f^ru"*nlV fc Original from 



i I . K Original from 


by G()0 



Illustrated by Tnomaa SomerrielcL 

This story has been filmed, and will be shown at the cinematograph theatres throughout the 
country, 5ee the announcement on the back of the frontispiece. 

famous tight-rope 
dancer, had not been 
in the Metropolis half an 
hour whin the brilliant 
poster of her rival u Papillon" taught her eyes 
on a hoarding opposite her hotel window. 
The poster showed a flamboyant human 
butterfly \wth the face of a young girl, which 
the lithographer had made stupidly inhuman 

ed by CpOOQIC 

Vol. jfku, 15 

by making it hopelessly angelic. At sight of 
this face that of Mile* Etheree had become 
demoniac. Her black eyes narrowed, her 
brows drew themselves into a serpentine 
curve, and her pouting red lips grew grim 
and thin and took a peculiar slant to the left. 
She was a small, dark woman, a native ol 
the Basses - Pyrenees, The fierce intensity 
of her emotions , preying upon her from 
within, had given her a hungry, burnt-out 


I2 4 


look, like that of a crater, but a crater that 
had depths — and depths still filled with lava. 
The handsome face masked its real age, 
though here and there, as Etheree had dis- 
covered with a chill dismay, a thin, faint 
wrinkle was visible. She carried her slender 
body proudly, and her head, with its casque 
of dark curls, she held poised as though it 
bore an invisible crown. The name she had 
chosen aptly described her slender body as 
well as her graceful evolutions in mid-air. 
There was something undeniably ethereal 
about her. But her passionate little soul, 
eternally vexed or tormented by the reaction 
of life, was fiercely material — a slave to idle 
pleasures, to personal triumphs, to public 
acclaim. She was pagan-souled and jealous- 
hearted, rebellious, devoured by dreams of 
impossible power and riches. She longed 
desperately for conquests ever new, but 
dreaded the future that might withhold them 
or even deprive her of the old. And the 
future, that vague and sinister gulf that 
threatened all her glory and all her prestige, 
was now embodied in this creature Papillon. 

The vision of her young and beautiful rival 
had haunted her all over the world. This 
damnable butterfly with the simpering face 
overshadowed her life like some evil vampire. 
The fame of Papillon rang everywhere in 
her ears. It challenged her right to the title 
of " The Queen of the Air." The popularity 
of her young rival had become as gall to her 
— as a sore that would not heal. But until 
now they had never met — never appeared 
in the same city at the same time. 

On the poster beneath the name of Papillon, 
Etheree had read that of Livia Karis, the 
classic Russian dancer, an old acquaintance 
of hers. There was to be a matinie that very 
afternoon. So she had driven off at once to 
the Marquise Theatre to see Livia Karis. The 
Russian, effusively expansive, received her 
in her dressing-room. She was tall and lean, 
with a shining, swarthy skin and immense 
coils of coal-black hair. The women em- 
braced,kissed, then began to chatter in French. 
When Mile. Etheree had remarked in a list- 
less, quite disinterested way of having heard 
that Papillon was to appear at the Marquise, 
the saturnine Russian smiled strangely. At 
heart she hated the Frenchwoman. Imme- 
diately she launched into a rhapsody of praise 
of Papillon, enjoying the mordant jealousy 
she knew must be gnawing at Etheree's 

" Is she on this afternoon ? " asked Etheree. 

" No, no ! She never dances at matinies. 
You must come this evening, ma chfrie I " 

Digitized by GodQle 

They kissed and parted. Flaming within, 
Mile. Etheree rushed from her friend's dress- 
ing-room, and ran forcibly against a man in 
the dim hallway. 

" Why, it's you, Etheree ! " exclaimed the 
bewildered man. " I'm so sorry — but I didn't 
think you'd come popping out that way ! '* 

" Ah, Mornington, it is you ! " cried 
Etheree, in her lilting English. *' How can 
you be so stupid ! " 

Her voice instantly took on its sweetest, 
most languid modulation. A winning smile 
traversed her lips. The hard black eyes.grew 
soft and liquid. 

James Mornington was the electrician at 
the Marquise Theatre. He had filled the same 
post at several other theatres at which Etheree 
had appeared. He knew her well, and there 
had been a time when his head had sat less 
firmly upon his shoulders because of her. He 
had also invented an illuminated effect for her 
which had pleased her much. He was a 
clever electrician and proud of his skill. A 
coil of wire was in his hand. 

" I was just rushing to put up some new 
reflectors," he said. " I've got a splendid 
new lighting scheme ! " 

" Yes ! yes ! Is it for one of the turns ? " 

" Yes ; for Papillon." 

11 Ah!" 

" Have you seen her, Etheree ? Her 
dancing is simply wonderful ! Brings down 
the house every night. And then her act in 
mid-air — right over the heads of the audience 
—it's the most " 

" No, no ! Never ! I don't care to see it — 
I'm not interested, Mornington." 

" But do let me show you our system of 
lighting ! It's all my work. There's not 
another like it in any theatre in the world." 

He led her through the labyrinths behind 
the scenes, explained the switches, the re- 
flectors, the different coloured lamps, for 
moonlight or sunlight effects, the batteries 
of spot-lights, the head, side, and foot lights. 
Etheree followed listlessly, murmuring vague 
short words of ignorant admiration. They 
came to a brick wall, in which there was a 
wooden door scratched over with innumerable 
names and initials. 

" And now I'll show you the source of it 
all," said Mornington, and led the way down 
a bleak, narrow corridor in which burned 
a single dust -covered electric bulb. She 
shrugged her shoulders and followed. The 
wires in their insulating conduits ran along 
the wall. At the end of the passage there was 
a slab of thick slate and a brass switch with 
an ebonv handle. 




: " This is where the current comes in from 

i the main/' said the enthusiastic electrician ; 

: " and here's where we shoot it into the 
branches. Should I throw down this switch 

i — this way — every light in the house would 

i go out." 

" Very interesting ! " said Etheree. " Oh, 

i you are such a clever-r-r man, Mornington ! " 

i she added, half -mockingly. 

Then the eternal rage for conquest over- 
came her again. She put her hand gently 
on his arm. Mornington smiled, immensely 
pleased by her words, but quite unsuscep- 
tible to her action. His fresh face and yellow 
moustache shone in the solitary light. A 
wooden Saxon oaf, was her thought. 

" You ought to come to-night," said he, as 
he led the way back, " and see the light effects 

for Papill " 

" No, no ! Merci t You are very good. 
Good-bye, mon ami." 

She extended her nervous little hand, gave 
him a melancholy smile, and tripped out. 

A fierce curiosity raged in her and gave 
her no rest. All that afternoon she paced up 
and down her room and smoked cigarette 
after cigarette. When evening came she 
drove to the stage-door of the Marquise 
Theatre and sent in her card to James 
Mornington. He came, smiling roundly, and 
escorted her in with the greatest deference. 

" Put me where I can see the acts, mon 
cher, without being seen," said she. 

" You seem a little nervous, Etheree," said 
he, looking at her out of his clear and honest 
eyes. " Anything wrong ? " 

" No, no, nothing wrong — absolument / But 
put me where I can see the turns." 

He led her into the wings and placed a chair 
for her in a corner from which she could survey 
the stage and, by peering through one of the 
side-pieces, most of the auditorium. Above 
her stretched the great fly gallery, with its 
grooves and pendent ropes. There were 
little platforms where men stood directing 
the shafts of coloured light at various angles 
upon the stage. The electric arcs buzzed 
and fluttered. Dressed entirely in black, 
with a dark veil, the little Frenchwoman sat 
immovably in her chair staring out at the 
lighted spaces of the stage. Her whole 
body was taut and rigid, her nerves like the 
tightened strings of some delicate guitar. She 
watched the performers out of the pro- 
fundities of her dark eyes, but scarcely saw 
them. The deep pools of her eyes were 
covered with a slumbrous, brooding film. A 
fit of impatience seized her, and then a fit of 
trembling ; her blood seemed touched with 

Digitized by GOOQ I C 

fever. When would the hated butterfly 
appear ? She rested her head upon her hands, 
her elbows supported by her crossed knees, 
and stared tragically at the bright spaces 
beyond the semi-obscurity in which she sat. 

There was a delicate rustling. A girl in 
a short filmy tunic and large iridescent 
wings floated past her, led by a short, 
swarthy man in a bizarre uniform. A faint 
perfume was cast upon her as the two 
passed. The man spoke a word or two of 
caressing Italian. Instantly Etheree sat 
erect ; her eyes flashed. 

This, this must be the Papillon ! 

The pale, glittering creature went out into 
the glare of the stage ; the coloured lights 
overhead sang and embraced her lovingly as 
she tripped to the centre. A dull rumble of 
applause, the muffled echo of thousands of 
clapping hands broke upon Etheree's ears. 
It was the unmistakable, heartfelt tribute of 
the public to one of its favourites. Mile. 
Etheree winced and quivered as if every 
hand-clap had been a blow. Her distended 
eyes were fixed upon the bright vision of 
Papillon as she stood on the naked boards 
bowing to right and left. The poster artist 
had not lied so much after all ! The face 
was strangely like that of a wax doll, vacant, 
expressionless, the rose-red lips curled into 
a mechanical smile. The yellow curls — and 
the eyes — such odd, huge, ox-like, wandering 
eyes Etheree had never seen. They reminded 
her of the eyes of an imbecile that saw yet 
could not perceive. This, then, was the 
wonderful artiste who was eclipsing her — 
this young, stupid doll ! 

Papillon was now dancing in the white 
lustre of the reflectors, a shimmering shape, 
her wings fluttering rapidly, a gorgeous, 
gigantic moth whirling in a focus of white 
fire. The swarthy little man in the extrava- 
gant lion-tamer's uniform stood leaning in 
sharp black silhouette against the wings. 
Mornington came back and stood beside 
Etheree. His open, somewhat foolish face 
glowed with enthusiasm. 

"That's her— that's Papillon!" he ex- 
claimed. " Wonderful, isn't she ? " 

" Oh, it's your lights, Mornington." 

" But this is only the first part of her act. 
I got up those lighting effects specially for her. 
Just wait and watch her, Etheree ! " 

" That man standing there — who is he ? " 

"That little fellow in the red jacket? 
That's her father. Their real name's Bertini 

He made a few steps to the left and whis- 
pered a direction to one of his men. When 

I Q I I I '.' I 1 1 




he returned Papillon had finished her dance. 
She stood smiling, bowing, throwing kisses 
in all directions, basking in the flame from 
above and from below. The applause rolled 
and reverberated through the theatre. A 
great bouquet of roses was flung across the 
footlights. Papillon's father hissed some- 
thing to her. She held out her arms and 
walked in the direction of the flowers, her 
hands groping strangely, yet swiftly as flashes 
of light. They caressed the flowers with 
graceful, adorable gestures as she stooped 
and picked them up. She bowed. Her 
sweetly-simpering face smiled radiantly 
towards every part of the theatre. 

" She's the drawing-card of the house," 
whispered Mornington, with a singular obtuse- 
ness to the jealous torment of the woman 
beside him. " She gets loads of flowers every 
night. And the manager's just extended her 
engagement another week. Pays her the 
biggest fee of any performer we've had this 
year. That father of hers is daft about the 
girl. Watches her like a hawk. Never lets 
her speak to a soul or go anywhere alone. 
She's just like a puppet m his hands. Now 
— watch her, Etheree ! — here comes her great 
act. The lights by me," he added, in a proud 

The human butterfly was standing delicately 
poised on tip-toe, her wings trembling slightly, 
her two bare white arms pointing upwards, 
the hands palm to palm. The eternal smile 
was on her lips. Her large eyes were fixed 
upon the shadowy heights of the gallery. 
Her father was crouching forward in an 
attitude of rigid alertness. 

Papillon, her feet pressed together and her 
great wings fluttering slowly, rose from the 
floor of the stage, then swept forward and 
upward. Her soft white slippers twinkled 
over the footlights — she floated over the 
heads of the orchestra, weaving graceful 
gestures with her hands. Then, still flying 
upward, she disappeared into the centre of 
the immense auditorium, ascending in the 
dazzling beams of two reflectors which shone 
upward from the pit of the orchestra. 

" Wonderful, isn't it ? " said Mornington, 
in admiration. " She's drawn right up to the 
very roof, to the tight-rope that's stretched 
from the top of the proscenium to the gallery." 

Papillon's father now turned and dashed 
up the light wooden stairs that led to the flv- 

" Then the wire that draws her up is 
loosened and she dances on the tight-rope. 
You can see her from here if you'll come for- 
ward a little. It's wonderful. And Bertini's 

by Google 

always there to receive her — on a little 
platform over the proscenium," said the 

Etheree clutched his arm with her small 
nervous hands ; her sharp nails bit into his 
flesh through his coat-sleeve. 

"Still nervous, Etheree?" he asked, 
opening his clear eyes. "I'm afraid you 
smoke too many cigarettes." 

" Bah ! " 

He was amazed at the rage, disgust, and 
contempt she spat forth in this one syllable. 

" Sot ! " she added, half under her breath : 
but the French form of that word was lost on 
the English ear. 

" You must excuse me now, Etheree," he 
said, pointing to the reflectors in the orchestra 
pit ; "I must keep an eye on the lights down 

"Yes, yes, I excuse you!" she said, clench- 
ing and shaking her hands with impatience. 
"Go, go!" 

He stared at her with puzzled eyes, pained, 
surprised, taken aback. Then his name was 
called from below, and he ran down the 
narrow steps that led beneath the stage. 

Etheree heard the hollow vastness of the 
auditorium reverberate like a drum with the 
rolling applause of anticipation. Papillon 
must have reached her goal — the wire 
stretched from front to back of the theatre. 
The dull tumult came booming across the 
footlights, echoing in the flies, sweeping past 
the wings into her cars, into her heart. Her 
ears, sharply attuned to the temperament 
and moods of audiences, to the various fluctu- 
ating emotions expressed by their hand- 
clappings, recognized the note of a grateful, 
affectionate response. Papillon was, beyond 
all doubt, a favourite with the public. It 
was she who was now " Queen of the Air." 

An eruption of blind fury overmastered 
Etheree's heart. She felt herself deposed, 
ignored, defeated — she, who had been ac- 
claimed the first aerial artiste of the world — 
to be thrust from the place of honour she 
had won — to lose her hold upon the hearts 
of the people — to be given a lower rank and 
a smaller salary by the managers — and all 
this because a shred of fluff and spangles, a 
young chit with china-blue pop-eyes and 
dyed yellow hair had stolen some of the best 
features of her own acts ! Her smouldering 
little heart almost burst with the tumult of 
her emotions. The lava in the crater boiled, 
then rose. The flame, the venom of her hate, 
mounted to her brain, her ears rang, the 
theatre seemed to swim before her eyes. For 
an instant she felt a mad impulse to tear off 

Original from 


-~ — i 




her loose dress until she stood 
arrayed in the black silk 
tights she wore beneath it, 
to rush upon the stage and 
re-conquer the 
fickle multi- 

The fools! 
to be taken in 
by a pair of 

wings and a baby face ! The 
faithless, capricious mob, the 
ignorant sots, not to see the dif- 
ference between her own finished 
art and the cheap tricks of this 
young puppet ! 

She longed to revile them, to 
spit into that vast, vague, col- 
lective face, then to dazzle, 
fascinate, captivate them once 
more, and bend them to worship 
and applause. That, or— - and now a primi- 
tive fury shook her in its grasp and almost 
unconsciously she assumed the attitude of 
a crouching panther-cat — to strangle her 
rival, to tear that pretty face of hers, to 

Digitized by Google 


hurl her from her foothold upon the taut, 
trembling wire, to trample those butterfly 
wings of hers into the dust ! Her frail little 
body seemed to dilate ; she felt an enormous 
strength possess her— ai though she were 
Original from 




Samson about to pull the 
entire playhouse crashing 
about their cars, and then 
perish herself in the ruins. 
Her rage and jealousy had 
reached that oblivious 
stage in which the human 
being is ready to immolate 
itself for the satisfaction 
of the one ungovernable 
impulse. She glared about 
her, her fists clenched, her 
teeth set. A profound still- 
ness filled the theatre. The 
multitude breathed faintly, 
like the inhalation and 
exhalation of some great , 
shapeless beast. The mag- 
netic thrill of sustained 
suspense and hushed atten- 
tion held the packed mass 
as if under a spell. 

But dreadful clangours 
and fierce whispers and 
blindingjUnutterable things 
filled Etheree's soul, and 
the shadows and the lights 
were woven into a smoky 
fabric as from some in- 
fernal loom. The faint* 
warm scent of thousands 
of human beings seemed 
uo go to her bram like 
some subtle intoxication. 
The lamps purred and 
buzzed and hummed. She 
could have shrieked in her 
torment and impotence. 
Her roving eyes caught 
sight of the door that led 
to the passage through 
which Mornington had 
taken her that afternoon* 
Impulsively she dashed 
towards this, tore it open, 
slipped in, then bolted it, 
from the other side* 

The dusty electric bulb burned as before. 
She rushed toward the gleaming brass and 
copper of the main switch, halted a moment* 
then, with a convulsive move me nt, seized the 
heavy ebonite handle and pushed it down. 

There was a hissing and crackling. Little 
points of dazzling green flame burst from the 
terminals. The solitary light went out. 
Etheree found herself plunged into inky dark- 
ness, through which still flickered the little 
points of flame f but now they were orange, 
crimson., and jj^M. She groped along thr 

Digitized by GoOglc 





walls and found a door and opened it, A gust 
of cool air smote her forehead. She advanced 
a step 3 her foot encountered the empty air, 
she stumbled and fell — fell, as she had often 
dreamed of falling from the taut wire, down, 
down through bottomless depths of darkness. 
But there was a bottom, and at the bottom 
there were steps — steps of cold, hard stone. 

Pap i lion rose slowly through the air over 
the heads of the audience, travelling aloft on 
the converging shafts of light* Her wings of 
Original from 




gauze and tinsel moved languidly. She made 
graceful swimming motions with her thin 
white arms. The act was one of levitation 
rather than of apparent flight. The thin 
wire of drawn steel that raised her slender 
little body was scarcely visible. The people 
in the stalls craned their necks, those in the 
front rows faced about, looking upward and 

The tight-rope or steel cable ran from a 
point above the gallery to the top and centre 
of the heavy and gilded proscenium arch. 
Here a small wooden platform had been built 
out. A tiny door opened in the wall behind 
and the stout figure of Papillon's father 
appeared. His prominent black eyes fol- 
lowed every movement of Papillon's flight. 
As her feet swept above the taut wire he 
shouted a word in his native tongue. The 
glistening wire that was lifting the human 
butterfly stood arrested. Papillon, her eyes 
fixed straight upon the hushed crowds in the 
gallery, felt for the taut cable with her soft 
shoes of white chamois leather. The toes of 
her little feet crooked themselves about the 
cable, her arms flew out and grasped the tips 
of her wings. She grew instantly alive at the 
touch of the thin hard strands underfoot, and 
poised herself delicately, vibrating and shim- 
mering like a splendid flower perched on some 
airy twig. She stooped, and the hook and 
wire that had drawn her into the air dangled 
loose and vanished into the ceiling. 

The greatness of Papillon's act lay in the 
fact that she used neither pole nor parasol to 
balance herself, as was the custom with other 
performers, even with the celebrated Etheree. 
She seemed to be unconscious of the wire, dis- 
daining it, never glancing at it, as though it 
were some safe, broad plank beneath her 
marvellous and sensitive feet. She balanced 
herself by means of her extended arms and 
by grasping and moving the tips of her wings. 
She seemed a creature of the airs, sporting in 
her native element, serene and self-assured 
as a bird. There was no safety-net beneath 
the wire, nothing but the murky air of the 
great auditorium, rows of seats, and hundreds 
of upturned faces and bare shoulders. The 
wire was stretched directly above the wide 
empty space of the central aisle. The 
public, true to the spirit of the Roman arena 
that survives in our civilization, smacked its 
lips over this added spice of danger. 

Papillon, her angelic, somewhat insipid 
smile upon her lips, levelled her large and 
vacant eyes directly at the gallery. She was 
now dancing upon the tight-rope* The 
slender, silken legs moved with incredible 

Vol. xML-ia 

grace and swiftness. She made mincing little 
steps towards the gallery, turned at a word 
from her father, then began to pirouette for- 
ward again towards the proscenium, where 
Bertini stood ready to seize her as soon as 
she reached him. The theatre was in dark- 
ness. Only the two sharp streams of changing 
light streamed upward from the orchestra pit. 
The human butterfly preened herself in the 
fierce rays and changing rainbow colours. 
The filmy silk and metallic fringes of her 
dress seemed to flame. A double shadow, 
like that of a monstrous bat, or some evil bird 
of the night,moved across the gilded mouldings 
and painted panels of the ceiling. 

The huge audience was hushed, its nerves 
at a strain, its heart pounding fearfully. 

" It's a wonder those lights don't blind 
her ! " said a nervous voice from one of the 

Papillon danced with flickering feet, an 
iridescent vision of ethereal loveliness. She 
seemed oblivious of the theatre, the place, the 
multitude. She was dancing more and more 
madly upon the quivering wire. An ecstasy 
possessed her ; her large eyes glittered in the 
glare streaming from below. She seemed to 
be poised upon the pillars of light like a whirl- 
ing leaf, to float upon the billows of music 
surging up from below — upon the breath of the 
multitude. Signor Bertini was humming a 
weird melody that seemed to inspire the feet 
of the butterfly and to control them even more 
than the music. 

Suddenly the lights went out. 

Instant blackness flooded the entire theatre. 
In the orchestra pit the red-hot carbons of 
the arc-lights still glowed, and the eyeballs 
of the spectators were filled with floating 
patches of colour and luminous blurs due to 
the sudden extinguishing of the spot-lights. 

The theatre gasped as though it were one 
huge mouth. The shrill shrieks of women, 
wildandconfused shouts, broke out of the dark. 

" Lights, lights ! " yelled a hundred voices. 

But the theatre remained dark. Even the 
dim glow of the shaded lights of the musicians 
was no longer visible. Only the lamps of the 
exits glowered blood-red in the blackness. 
In these burned candles, as the law decreed. 
Somewhere behind the stage a furious pound- 
ing was heard, a crash, and excited voices. 
From stalls to gallery the whole theatre shook 
with a strange, infectious terror. The orchestra 
abandoned the dance tune and began playing 
a lively, popular air. But louder and clearer 
than this, Bertini's weird monotone rang 
through the dark. People rose from their 
seats, which thudded back, and groped 


1 S° 


blindly with their hands. There was a noise 
of dropping bags, opera-glasses, and canes, 
a vast, confused, uneasy uproar." 

" Silence, silence ! " thundered a voice from 
the boxes, " or the girl will fall." 

They knew it, they felt it in every nerve 
of brain and body ! In mid-air, in the 
impenetrable, thick darkness, poised on a 
strand of steel between life and death, Papillon 
was hovering — bewildered, lost ! The un- 
endurable strain, the blind suspense laid 
every soul bare and filled it with an agony 
of primitive fear. Every moment the horrified 
audience expected to hear a shriek, a rush of 
wings through the air, the crash of the little 
body on the floor of the auditorium. 

The people occupying the seats directly 
beneath the wire were seized with sudden 
panic and the fear of death. Already their 
terrorized imaginations seemed to feel the 
impact of the body hurtling from the roof. 
Several men began to light matches. They 
made mere ragged holes in the darkness. The 
sickly little yellow flames fell on frightened 
faces and startled eyes. The vaulted roof 
high overhead remained plunged in obscurity. 
One man near the orchestra lighted his pro- 
gramme and waved it aloft as a torch. Even 
this was futile. A flake of burning paper fell 
on the chiffon scarf of the lady beside him. 
It flared up. The man seized it and trampled 
out the flames. A dull glow now came 
from behind the stage. This and the scent 
of the burning silk and paper acted with 
terrible suggestive force upon the minds of 
the half-hysterical audience. 

" Fire ! Fire ! " 

The dread cry sprang into the air, and was 
instantly echoed from every part of the 
theatre. And the spirit of panic swept 
through the frenzied house like some mon- 
strous h^rpy with enormous wings. Howling, 
sobbing, shrieking, the greater part of the 
audience rushed for the exits above which 
the red transparencies burned like symbols 
of doom. The bolts and bars of the emergency 
exits were struck down with a crash. Like 
grain pouring from a hopper, the people 
flung themselves headlong into the dark, 
stony passages and down the steps — a human 
avalanche that roared, strove, and fought 
between the confining walls. 

Suddenly the lights went up. 

The theatre was still half full of struggling 
people. Instantly they paused and turned 
their eyes aloft. Papillon still stood there, 
poised daintily upon the tight-rope, still 
smiling her incredibly angelic smile, like a 
spirit of peace and light above the chaos and 

frenzy and darkness in the depths. She had 
not paused in her dance, but had advanced 
steadily and was now close to her father. 
His dark face had grown ash-coloured, his 
eyes were glassy with terror. He leaned 
forward and extended his trembling arms. 

" Maria ! " he cried. 

The audience burst into hysterical cheers 
and sobs. Bertini bowed. His tragic face 
broke into a smile, as he and Papillon dis- 
appeared through the opening above the arch. 

A tornado seemed to have devastated 
the theatre. The stalls and aisles were 
strewn with programmes, with flowers, with 
brilliant wraps, with opera-glasses, crushed 
silk hats, and overcoats. A stout woman in 
black silk, heartlessly abandoned by her 
husband, had fainted, and lay sprawling across 
two seats, her false hair hanging grotesquely 
from her head. Another woman was attempt- 
ing to cover what remained of her evening dress 
with what remained of her opera cloak. In 
one corner a string of large pearls lay like a 
livid serpent on the crimson carpet. 

The orchestra continued to play its inspirit-. 
ing airs, the emergency doors were closed 
again, the performance went on. 

Pressing Papillon closely to his side, Bertini 
descended with her behind the scenes. He 
looked about him nervously, uneasy, sus- 
picious. He attempted to carry his daughter 
off at once to her dressing-room. 

But they were instantly surrounded by 
a group of excited fellow-performers, who 
grasped the girl's hands and shook them 
fervently. The manager of the theatre came 
rushing up to offer his congratulations. But 
Papillon did not appear to see his extended 
hands, and when he spoke her great eyes 
looked calmly and vacantly towards but not 
into his own. He stared ; a puzzled, then a 
troubled, expression passed over his features. 
He put out his hand to take the girl by the 
arm. Swiftly, jealously, Bertini drew her 

" Wait, Signor Bertini ! " shouted the 

He approached still closer and stared 
sharply into Papillon's eyes. He swept his 
hand past her face ; there was not even the 
quiver of an eyelid. Her gaze, her quiet 
smile remained unchanged. 

" The girl's blind ! " he shouted, then turned 
furiously upon Bertini, and shook his fist 
in the Italian's face. 

" You scoundrel ! " he cried. " To let her 
dance — here in my theatre — and against the 
law ! " 

" She no blind — she see— she see with her 






hand — with her foot ! '' screamed Berlin!, 
despairingly. " She safe just because she 
blind. She see with my eyes, 3 ' 

" I'll cancel your engagement, Bertini ! " 
the manager went on. " 111 notify the police ! 
This poor blind girl of yours has been risking 
her life to make you rich. Rut you may rest 
assured that this is her last appearance/' 

Thus it came about that Papillon, the 

darling of ten nations and the hated rival of 
the famous Etheree, never danced before the 
public again. 

It was not until the theatre was thoroughly 
inspected that night that they found Etherec, 
a cold , pathetic mass, huddled into a dark 
corner of one of the emergency exits where the 
trampling hum fin s.vaianche had swept over 



Illustrated oy Alfred Leete. 

lying in 

V day's work ? I start it in 
bed — thinking. Oh, I do 
think — sometimes ! I find 
ted conducive to 
exertion, i could 
write plays — in bed — if I had 
the mind to. I even answer 
letters— in bed ; that is, in my thoughts, of 
course j not on paper. I am much maligned 
about my letter- writing. The late Sir 
William Gilbert asked my friend R. C Carton 
if I ever answered letters. " Oh, yes ! " 
Carton replied. M In the course of my long 
friendship with Welch I have received two 
letters from him. One Tve bequeathed to 
the Bodleian and the other to the British 

They say I hardly ever look at my letters ; 
but that is most untrue. Business letters, 
of course, get answered; but people will 
write to me about their little dogs whom 
they've christened after me. Or they've 
been to see me act, and are sure I have a kind 

and benevolent heart. 
One letter in my pos- 
session asks for "any 
trifle — even fiftv 
pounds" ! Well 
silence is golden, isn \ 
it? I think they 
answers to all I host / 
letters — in bed. 

At the start of my 
own career, in reply 
to a letter that I my- 
self sent to the late 
T, W. Robertson 
(son of the author of 
" Caste/' "School; 1 
and other mono- 
syllables of fame), 
asking him to give 
me a chance as an 
understudy, as it 
would be of such 
advantage 1 tB^WiV 1 w-" 




appear under his wing, I received the fol- 
lowing ;■ — 

" Dear Sir., — It might be a great advantage 
to you to be an understudy in my company, 
but it would be none to me. — Yours faithfully, 
T. W. Robertson;' 

I am sure I have never in my life written 
anything ruder than that* I may have said 

I had another very rude letter from George 
Bernard Shaw once. It ran something like 
this : — 

" Dear James, — I paid my half-crown like 
a gentleman to come and sec you in f When 
Knights were Bold. 1 Believe me, my dear 
James s you will never beat the Brothers 
Griffiths in this line, — Yours always, G, B, S," 

I wonder what he'd say to " Oh, I Say ! " 

You know what Sir W, S. Gilbert said once 
about a promising young actor ? il I don't 
niind his promising if he won't perform ," 

But for real wholesome Home Truths com- 
mend me to Scotsmen, A Scotch caddie 
who was carrying for me round the golf-links 
at Baigownie, just outside Aberdeen , had a 
crushing habit of silence, but, when pressed 
for his opinion of my golfing, grunted : — 

" Are ye doin' pretty well as an actor ? " 

\ take the afternoon 
rehearsal sandwich ik 


" Yes, pretty well/' 
" H'm ! I think I'd stick to it," 
Taking my cue from this canny criticism 
of my golf, I said to him :— 

" Look here , Urquhart, 1 know now what 
you think about my capabilities as a golfer. 
I should like to know what you think of me 
as an actor. Would you like to come and see 
the play ? If so, I'll give you a couple of 
seats for you and your wife*" 

Urquhart looked at me and said : "H'm! 
I'll see what the missus says/' So the next 
day, after twenty-four hours* silence between 
us , half-way round the course, I suddenly 
sprang it on him, " Well, Urquhart, what 
did the missus say ? " 

14 She says she'd have no objection," 
So 1 got him two seats to come and see " The 
New Clown," the piece in which I was play- 
ing at the moment, and in which I had busi- 
ness with a braying donkey in the Circus 
scene. The next day, after another twenty- 
four hours' silence between Urquhart and 
myself, half-way round the course again, I 
said: "Well, Urquhart, did you and the 
missus get to the theatre last night ? " 

" Oh, yes, we were there. Did ye no' 
see us ? 

u No. Thank goodness, the house was 
too good to notice anyone in particular* 
Wellj did you enjoy it ? " 
** H'm ! There's nae harm in it." 
** Did your wife enjoy it ? n 
" Weel — she's not said otherwise," 
I was determined to wring a criticism, 
if not a compliment, out ol him, so I 
said : " Look here, what do you think 
of me as an actor ? I know what you 
think of me as a goiter/ 3 
Then he opened out. 
" Weel," he said, " I tell ye the best 
thing ye do in thet play." 1 buttoned 
back my ears to listen, *'* The best 
thing ye do in thet play is where ye bring 
thet donkey on. By gum, he makes 
them laugh ! " 

Let me see — where was I ? Oh, yes, 
of course, in bed. It takes a long time 
to get out of bed. It's easy enough 
to make up your mind about it, but 
the difficulty is to make up your body. 
Every morning I resolve to turn over a 
new leaf, but I find it so much easier 
to turn over the old sheet. 

Well, when I do get up I breakfast, 
to the accompaniment of the telephone 
bell. Then off to the theatre, where 
there is a Fecund supply of letters to 



SOUI\ T ' 

FtotQ, fry EUt* 

4 W*i*>t'. 

ments to brruk. and a 
rehearsal , probably, at 
ten-thirty or eleven. If 
the rehearsal allows of 
a pause for lunch I try 
to get off it, and take 
the afternoon rehearsal 
sandwich in hand, like 
the Mad Halter. I hope 
that's the only likeness 
between us. An in- 
judicious person asked 
me the other day if 
I ever used had lan- 
guage at rehearsals. 

is "ON, I 

say :" 

I occasionally use the author s language, of 
course, and when things are very trying I acid 
my own — English and Welch, so to speak. 

After rehearsal there are various things to 
discuss ; little things, that are so important 

on the stage ; and then, again, there are i 
always people to see, or to be seen. The 
patience some of them show when 1 keep them 
wailing while I talk is touching, and I hate to 
do it, but it isn't always possible to help it. 
There are so many that I absolutely must 
see ; and *o many di&t I personally want to 



J 35 

see, that it really takes a bit of dovetail- 
ing to get them all in ? and if I talk too 
long to any of them someone suffers. In 
fact, they do* 

Well, by way of being amused, when 
not too busy, I like to go inio the box- 
office for a few minutes to see the audience 
coming in. Once, when a dear old lady 
was trying to get a seat and was told 
that the house was sold out, she said : 
"" Oh, how delighted Mi\ Welch must be 1 " 


[ W. & 0. Dowufv. 

IN" "THE new clown. 

I couldn't resist the temptation of bobbing up and 
saying: "1 am!" We had quite a long chat, 
and when she told me that she loved to see me in 
M When Knights were Bold " because I was " even 
funnier than Michigan/' I was quite elated, 
though I hadn't the least idea who Michigan was. 
I discovered afterwards that he was a baboon, 
famous in the days of our grandmothers. Ah, 
well ! N Maybe it's my beauty." 

Talking of baboons, I must tell you an inci- 
dent that happened at the Coliseum, I was playing 
a piece which was written for me by Sir W. S + 
Gilbert — *' The Hooligan" — the scene of which 
was laid in the condemned cell. Everything we 
had on the stage was exactly real, even to the 
Government bed. One day I was asked hy 
the stage management to lend them my bed 
for another turn, 

" What turn ? " I asked. 
f * For Adam and Eve," he replied. 
" Well, that seems a good object ; but who 
is — or what are— Adam and Eve ? " 

11 Two very clever performing monkeys/' 
After the box-office, the dressing-room. 
Make-up docs not take so long as people are 
apt to imagine. I can never begin to study 
a part tilt the msui's appearance is clear to 
my mii^^^pffl^Hftfcfls alter the 

i3 6 



details of their make-up more than once — no 
doubt from an anxious desire to get the best 
possible. It is as well, however, to leave it 
unchanged after the performance has begun, 
though they do tell of an Ophelia who played 
the first act in a golden wig, and then, dis- 
satisfied with her appearance, tried the effect 
of red powder in her own dark hair for the 
next. By the third act she was a Harlequin 
Dane, and her exertions in the Mad scene 
shook so much of the powder off that^ by the 
time she wandered forth to a watery grave f 
her loeks were as black as her prospects, 

A straight make-up only takes a few 
minutes. Eight or ten minutes will make 
me up and dress me for a part like Marcel 
Durosel in " Oh, I Say ! " though a character 
study like " The Man in the Street " may take 
a trifle longer. That disreputable old tramp 
had to have dirt stuck up his nails and into 
his ears and round the back of his neck, 
because he had to look the sort of old 
offender whom anyone would convict at 
sight. By the by, talking of convictions, 
I must tell you the tale of the White- 
chapel Champion (female), who, having 
been hauled off and locked up when in 
the midst of a heavenly fight with a rival 
beauty, was brought before the magis- 
trate the next morning and asked the 
usual questions. You know what they 
are, of course. No ? Well, the dialogue 
in her case was like this : — 
" Your name ? " 

" Hangel." 

" Place of residence ? " 

" Then how did you get 
here ? " asked the magis- 
trate, looking up, 

1{ W f y, I greased my legs 
and slid dahn a rinebowv* 
" Oh ! Hm ! Six months 
for skylarking." 

Don't tell me I'm still 
making up ! 

Of course, there are 
people to see while I'm 
about it ; and they come 
between the acts, and they 
come when the show is 
over ; and I love to sec 
them all when I can. Then? 
of course, there are 'phones 
and wires and express mes- 
sages and other advantages 
of civilization — to say 
nothing of Pressmen, It is 
safest to say nothing about 
Pressmen. Put it ls possible at last to get 
the day's work over, and then— well, then— 
1 eat ! A bowl of bread and milk- 
Talking of meals, I must pause for a moment 
to tell you a beautiful story of Comey Grain, 
even at the risk of your knowing it. He had 
gone to give an entertainment at the house 
of a nouveau rkke down in the country some- 
where. There was a dinner on. When he 
got there, to his amazement, he was shown 
into the servants' hall to wait. Their dinner 
was just on the table, so he accepted the 
butler's invitation and sat down to it with 
them. After the meal, at which he was 
particularly bright , he went all through his 
programme for the benefit of his hosts, the 
servants. He had hardly done when he was 
summoned to the drawing-room, to find the 
guests there solemnly seated in rows, waiting 
for him to commence. 


by Google 





" Commence ? " he asked, wiLh his bland 
smile, 4£ Commence what ? My little enter- 
tainment ? Oh, I see.. Very sorry, but— 
it's over, I gave it, as I always do, where I 
dined. Good night." 

Of course, the nature of the day's work 
varies. ' Some plays demand a special study 
■of type and atmosphere. I used to frequent 
the police courts for (I The Man in the Street/ 1 
while " The Hooligan " required some of the 
most painful preparation I have ever had 
to go through. You know the old story of 
the clergyman who, when he left his parish to 
become chaplain of a jail, preached his fare- 
well sermon to his parishioners on the text, 
" 1 go to pre [ja re a place for you." Well, 
we went to jail, Sir William Gilbert and I, 
to prepare the scene of 4t The Hooligan/' 
the action of which passes in the condemned 

A well-known K.C. who came to see the 
piece asked me what was my object in play-* 
ing such a gruesome thing. I said I did it for 
fun. He then wanted to know why Gilbert 
wrote it. 

44 Well/' I replied, " of course, you know 
that Gilbert, who was at one time a barrister 
himself, has always had his knife into the 
legal profession and his object in writing 
* The Hooligan ' was this. The poor little 
brute put up such a good defence of himself 
to his warders that if he had only been allowed 
to defend himself at his trial he'd have got 
off/ 1 

By the by, a photograph appeared at that 
time in one of the papers of Sir William 
Gilbert and myself (the long and the short of 
it) walking down Pall Mall arm-in-arm. 
Underneath was printed : il The great 
dramatist, Sir W, S. Gilbert, and James 
Welch, the comedian. What's in the wind ? " 

As a matter of fact, at that moment I was 
telling Sir William where to get good ripe 
Camembert cheeses, and he was bending over 
me saying : " I always bury mine in the gar- 
den for two days/' 

Talking of authors, I find that many of 
them labour under the delusion that an actor 
has heaps of time on his hands — time that 
would be profitably employed in listening to 
their plays. Hearing plays read, or reading 
them myself, takes up many an agreeable 
hour, and then I wish I had more hours for 
reading other things. 

Then, besides play-acting, actors now have 
"another and very interesting kind of work to 
undertake— I mean acting before the cinema. 
To my thinking, cinema-acting is a great 
education for the actor. When he sees the 
film he sees himself as others see him, and, if 
he has the right stuff in him, the shock should 
be beneficial— if he survives it, I did— just ; 
but there may be sudden deaths among the 
audience when my films are shown. I like 
acting before the cinema, and I mean to do a 
lot more of it when my present duties give 
me time. 

Yes, I think I've run over the principal 
items of my day's work. Do I perform them 
all ? Good heavens, no ! If I ever did all 
I ought to do in a day 1 should feel like 
Thoreau when he made a perfect pencil and 
said, " Now I've done with pencil-making. " 
I should be done with life ! 

Vol slvij.— 17- 


s mi; h}w t jJuM Tnjpliti 

riginal from 


ILLY McVEIGH. of the Royal 
North -West Mounted Police, 
crouched low behind his little 
hummock of ice and snow, 
mentally figuring how much 
longer his numbed fingers 
could load his rifle at fifty 
degrees below zero. As he figured , and 
thrust the last of five cartridges into the 
chamber j a little white puff of smoke rose 
from another ice-hummock three hundred 
yards down the ridge , and at the nerve- 
racking whine of a bullet close over his head 
McVeigh ducked* His body was half- burrowed 
in the crust and snow. About him were 
scattered ten empty cartridges, where they 
had been thrown by the ejector, With a 
grimace on his face — the grimace of a man 
who momentarily expects a bullet to smash 
squarely between his eyes — he raised himself 
slowly until he looked through the furrow he 
had made with his gun-barrel. For an instant 
his eyes peered over the top of the snow- 
hummock. Straight ahead of him was Bob 
Carter 7 the man he was after. On the left 
rose the snow -smothered ridge. To the 
right was the Barren with its stunted scrub ; 
five or six miles away was the dark fringe of 
timber along the Coppermine. Yesterday 
McVeigh had reckoned that he was as near 

the Arctic Circle as he cared to bt% with th 
temperature at fifty below and a mas> f- 
black sky rolling down from the north. That 
sky was thicker and blacker now, and out of 
it there came the low wailing that precede 
Arctic storm* It was a terrifying 9Mi 
ominous sound, and increased the cold in 
McVeigh's veins. But he was not afraid 
He was thirty-five, and for ten years he W 
hunted men* Five of those years had been 
spent north of Fifty-three, He set his teeth, 
and took a pot-shot at Carter; 

Behind his hummock Carter, the outlaw 
lay flat on his face. He did not look like an 
outlaw* He was older than McVeigh by a 
year or two. The eyes that peered through 
the furrow he had made in his bulwark w&* 
blue* His hair was long and blond. Out- 
wardly he was the sort of man another would 
like to meet in the loneliness of a desolation 
four hundred miles from civilization. There 
was something companionable about hirn* 
even as he heard the dull chug of McVeighs 
bullet under him* 

He chuckled aloud as he poked his rifle- 
barrel along the furrow. 

' Mighty good thing this snow covers a 
rock," he' told himself. "If it wasn't for 
that you'd V pinked me half-a-dozen time* 
old man* You're sure shootin' to kill, an' » 
I don'Cf^ift^NteWito wing you pretty soon 


of tfie 


^ James Oliver Cxirwoocl 

Illustrated by J.F.Woolrich 

I'll have to let fly at you fair. But 1 don't 
want to hurt you — bad I n 

He fired, and flattened himself again. 

Behind his hummock McVeigh, the man- 
hunter, gave an exclamation of disgust* 

" Hang it ! ri he ejaculated. " I'll swear 
IVe bu!Ts~eyed that hummock four times 
out of five ! I wonder " 

A handful of snow flew into his face, and a 
bullet screeched so near that in spite of him- 
self a low cry broke from his lips. His jaw 
set tensely* 

M He's getting the range " he muttered. 
11 Something's got to happen — soon. My 
heavens , but it's cold ! n 

Slowly there rose above the distant mound 
an object that stood out stark black against 
the white behind it. With a swift intake of 
his breath McVeigh sighted for it, and fired. 
The dark object disappeared, McVeigh's 
frost-nipped face had turned a shade whiter. 

" I hated to do it/' he gasped. " I hated 

Behind his snow-covered rock Carter was 
looking at a hole in his fisher-cat cap, and 
there was an unpleasant smile on his 

tr Now where the devil would you have been. 
Bob Carter — if your head 'ad been in the 
cap ? " he asked himself. There was a new- 
glitter in his eyes as he poked his rifle along 

the furrow* u I ain't shot to kill— yet/' he 
said j speaking straight at the man-hunter. 
" But I guess it's time- I ain't a murderer. 
Don't believe I'm even bad— not very bad. 
Couldn't be — an' live for five years with an 
angel like her. So I'm going to pink you, old 
man. Don't like to — but I must. Seems to 
me she's tellin' me to do it I " 

More than once he had struck down a 
running fox at three hundred yards. Now 
he centred the distant snow -hum mock, and 
in the same instant McVeigh rose from behind 
his shelter, a clear target against the grey 
sky behind him. Carter did not fire again. 
He watched McVeigh as he staggered half-a- 
dozen paces from the hummock, and fell face 
downward in the snow. Then he rose from 
behind his own shelter and ran swiftly 
towards his fallen foe, 

When McVeigh opened his eyes he was in 
a cabin. He was flat on his back, and stripped 
from the waist up. His first sensation was 
one of utter helplessness. Then he moved, 
and gave a groan of pain. Carter's face 
appeared over him instantly, and with its 
appearance everything flashed upon Billy 
McVeigh. Carter had got him. But he 
wasn't dead, he wasn't particularly uncom- 
fortableJUtWEffifi frCtf<Wf£ H^hJ murderous ^ 



There was a smile of approbation in the 
outlaw's eyes as he looked down into McVeigh's 

" Thought you wouldn't kick the bucket 
that easy/' he said. " If I'd used a soft- 
nosed bullet there wouldn't be much of you 
left, but I used the steel-points purpose not 
to hurt you bad if it was only a wing shot. 
You've got a hole clean through your shoulder, 
an' your arm's broke. Funny how you got 
an arm in front of that bullet. But you 
ain't hurt bad, an' I've got you spliced up 
good as most any doctor could fix you. How 
you feelin' ? " 

" Fine ! " said Billy, with a grimace, and 
lapsed off into semi-consciousness again. 

Carter went coolly about his work of 
making a rabbit pot-stew over the sheet-iron 
stove. For some time after coming to him- 
self again Billy looked about him without 
apprising Carter of his improved condition. 
His head was bolstered up, and his brain 
became quite clear. His arm was bandaged 
so tightly that it felt like a stick, and there 
was a burning sensation in his shoulder. 
Otherwise everything about himself appeared 
to be so normal that he was sure he could 
stand on his feet without much effort. 

The first thing that struck him, after he 
had looked hard at Carter, was the unusual- 
ness of the cabin he was in. He could not 
remember having seen another cabin just 
like this anywhere north cf Fort o' God or 
Nelson House. Every corner and every 
wall of it spoke of a woman's presence. He 
knew of only two white women who lived 
north of Fort Churchill, but he was sure that 
it was a white woman who lived here. The 
first of the strange things that had caught his 
eyes was adiminutive, old-fashioned melodeon, 
with a row of ivory keys yellowed by age. 
There were pictures on the walls, clean white 
muslin curtains at the two windows, and to 
his astonishment he found that he was lyirg 
between white sheets. And then he saw a 
pair of shoes on the floor — not morcasins, or 
shoe-packs, of buckskin lac-flips — but shoes 
— the first he had seen for almost a year ! 
He leaned over, and stared at them. They 
were a woman's shoes, and from heel to toe 
they were no longer than his hand. When 
he dropped back, Carter was looking at him. 

" You married ? " asked McVeigh, look- 
ing the outlaw straight in the eyes. 

Carter had stooped to pick up the shoes. 
In his big, strong hands he held them with a 
tenderness that was almost worshipful. He 

" She forgot these/' he said. " I sent her 

Digitized by ^OOQIC 

South — down to folks we've got in Mcntreal 
— when I heard you fellows were on my trail 
again. She hasn't guessed why I almost 
forced her to go. You see, when I heard you 
fellows 'ad dug up old accounts, an' was after 
me again, I figgered something unpleasant 
might happen. You understand — she don't 
know." He placed the shoes on a stool and 
bent over the stove again. " Feel like takin* 
your stew now ? " he asked. 

With an effort McVeigh pulled himself on 
his good elbow, and then sat up. 

* 4 I'll get up," he said. " Have you got * 
— a — anything for me to put on ? " 

Carter brought him a clean blue shirt and 
his trousers. He chuckled as he helped 
McVeigh put on the garments, and then 
assisted him to his feet. They sat down at a 
table, spread with a red cloth, and Carter began 
dishing out the stew. McVeigh, looking at 
him closely, noted the hungry look in his eyes. 
The outlaw ate as if famished, McVeigh had 
taken no food since morning, and it was now 
late afternoon. His appetite was unimpaired 
by his injury, and between them they cleaned 
up the rabbit stew and a full-sized bannock. 
When they had finished, Carter brought 
McVeigh his pipe, and they smoked. 

" I didn't know you were married," said 
McVeigh. " The report didn't say anything 
about that/' 

" Pretty bad report, wasn't it ? " 

McVeigh nodded. 

"It said you shot up a man, nine years ago, 
down in a lumber camp on the Pigeon/' 

A hard glitter came into Carter's eyes. 

" That's true," he said. 

" And, you know," went on McVeigh, a 
thrill of pride in his voice, " the Royal 
Mounted doesn't forget — and Canadian la* 
never outlaws itself. It happened nine 
vears ago, and for years we lost track of you, 
but " 

" You think you're going to get me at last.' 

" Sure." 

Carter thumbed down the tobacco in his 
pipe-bowl, and to the glitter in his eyes there 
was added an unpleasant tightening of his 

" How," he asked, quietly, " do you 
expect to get me ? " 

" That depends," replied McVeigh. " I've 
been in this game of man-hunting for ten 
years, and I've seen stranger things happen- 
I think, probably — if you don't take advantage 
of my present helplessness and kill me — that 
I shall get you within the next four or five 

His cyc^j$j(cj^tf^ squarely. They were 

universityof Michigan' 



the eyes of a strong man, and a fighter. And 
then he added, as mildly as though speaking 
to a friend : — 

" Of course, it all depends on what you're 
^oing to do with me. Carter, If you put me 
out of the game 
entirely it'll be 
up to someone 
else to run you 

The gleam 
had gone from 
Carter's eyes, 
and he chuckled 
in his peculiar 

way as he 

offered McVeigh 

fresh tobacco- 
"I don't mind 

telling you what 

I *rn going to do, 

old man/' he 

said, pleasantly. 

* ( This cabin is 

sixty miles from 

the nearest 

post } and you 

won't be able to 

travei for two 

weeks, at the 

best. So I'm 

going to leave 

you in the 


There's plenty 

of grub here, 

an' you'll be 

mighty com- 
fortable. Mean- 

while yours 

truly will be 

hikin* it south- 
ward, an' by 

the time you 

get in a report 

the little girl 

and I'll be emi- 

gratin'. Isn't 

that a pretty' 

reason 'ble pro- 
gramme ? M 
11 I'm worse'n 

an old sour- 
dough," growled McVeigh. " I should 'a' 

pinked you half-a-dozen times at that three 

hundred yards. Such rotten shoot in' " 

"It wasn't so rotten t after all,' 1 interrupted 

Carter. u You'd V got me six times, anywav, 

if I hadn't been behind a rock. You shot 

to kill — bein' a good, tender-hearted, law- 
abidin* citizen- I didn't. When I made up 
my mind I had to get you it took just one 
shot to do the business. You put a hole 
clean through the cap I held above the rock. 
I guess you wanted me— bad." 




In the gathering darkness McVeigh flushed 
at the low taunt in Carter's voice. The 
gloom of Arctic night had fallen swiftly, and 
the outlaw rose and lighted a lamp. 

" I don't re^^toglfligtYthi' report said 

how y^ifflftngft OTffliCHHtfN Mpv *» 



suggestively, as Carter opened the stove-door 
to put in a chunk of wood. 

The fire flashed red in Carter's face. He 
closed the stove-door and stood up straight. 

" I'll tell you how," he said, and there was 
a tremble of passion in his voice. " That 
hound Teazell made life unbearable for 
me then, and he's made it so for me ever since 
— by keeping you human dogs on my trail. 
I came up to the Pigeon lumber camps 
straight from teaching school in an Ohio 
village. I was almost dead with lung 
trouble, and didn't weigh much more than 
half what I do now. That devil took a 
dislike to me. He was the bully of the camp. 
He dogged me, he beat me a dozen times, but 
my pride kept me from running away. Then 
— that day — it happened when I met him 
and his brother alone on the trail. I don't 
know — can't understand — why he hated me 
so. That day he almost killed me. I was 
on my back, his hands at my throat — and 
everything was growing black — when I drew 
a revolver I carried and shot him. It was a 
self-action, and I shot him three times before 
he let go of my throat. He would have 
killed me, I shot in self-defence. I killed 
him — as I would kill him again in the 
same circumstances. But his brother was 
the only witness — and he lied. I got away, 
and I've been hiding in the North ever since. 
And for that you and the rest of your man- 
hunting tribe want to see me swing at the 
end of a rope. Heavens, what a beast the 
law can be ! " 

He went to the cabin-door and opened it. 
Outside it was black. A cutting wind was 
whining over the Barren. The deeper rumble 
of it, like the distant roar of surf, was 
growing nearer. 

McVeigh came to Carter's side and looked 
over his shoulder. 

" We're goin' to have a devil of a storm," 
he said. jjj 

Fifteen minutes later they were listening 
to the moaning sweep of it over the cabin. 
Carter had been talking. The over-heated 
stove reflected a red glow in his face. His 
eyes shone. McVeigh had let his pipe go out. 

Carter went on. 

" Jove, I'll never forget that day I saw 
her first, three years ago last September/' he 
said. " I was down at Fort o' God then, 
making ready to guide a hunting party that 
was coming up. I was mending a canoe on 
the river shore, and it wasn't more'n seven 
o'clock, with the sun just coming up over 
the forest. I heard a sound V looked up. 

An' there she was, facin' the sun ; an* as I 
looked she loosened all that glorious hair of 
hers and tossed it about her, burnin' like red 
an' gold piles of — of — glory in the sunlight. 
She was ' airing ' it, she told me afterward, 
and she's done that same thing every morning 
for the last three years, sunshine or storm. 
She didn't see me then, an' when at last she 
turned and found me looking at her it was 
all in a moment as if you'd crushed a lot of 
flowers in her cheeks ; and then she turned 
and ran away from me as if I'd frightened < 
her to death." 

Carter was not looking at McVeigh now. 
There was in his face the look of a man who 
was seeing a vision of paradise. His face 
had softened. He laughed, and his voice 
was low and exultant — exultant with the joy 
of possession and of love — as he went on : — 

" She had come up with her uncle from 
Montreal. They were going to hunt and 
wanted a guide. I became that guide. I've 
had faith in God ever since then — even though 
I've killed a man. I've had faith in Him, 
because all that happened was a miracle. I 
worshipped her. She said it was God that 
brought her into the forests an' made her 
meet me. She loved the wild things as I've 
never seen a woman love 'em before — the 
trees, the lakes, the rivers, even the snow 
an' storms. We were married before her 
uncle went back, an' she's been happier every 
day since then, an' she's grown more V 
more beautiful, an' — an' " 

He was not speaking to McVeigh now. He 
was looking straight through the log wall of 
the cabin, through the black night, and what 
he saw put a strange thrill in his voice. 

" An' we're gojg' to have — a fam'ly — in 
the spring," he finished. " That was my 
excuse— for sendin' her down to Montreal. 
I'm pray in' it's a girl like her, and she's 
praying it's a boy like me" 

McVeigh struck a match, and Carter 
started, as if awakened out of a half-dream. 
He laughed, and his face flushed red. 

" Now, what the deuce have I told you all 
that for ? " he demanded, and the hard tone 
came back into his voice. " But sometimes 
I say those things all to myself, so don't 
suspicion I've told you about her to work 
on your sympathy. Why, when a man's got 
an angel like her back of him he don't need 
sympathy, he don't need anything but fights 
— an' he'll win 'em all. Because, when a 
man's got a wife like her he stands right next 
to the A'mighty. I felt that way when you 
was sniping at me behind the rock, and every 
tfjflf.I heard a bulled) |,gq|v]chug ! I thought, 






AT GLUK loirs H \ 

IT Aiout hkf 

1 1 I K I II 

' She 'n T her God put this 
rock under the snow-crust/ 
Look here- — " 

He rose and went to the 
side of the room, where a 
box had been nailed up- 
right to the log wall and 
covered with a muslin 
curtain. As he drew back 
the curtain he looked at 
McVeigh, his eyes shining 
with pride, 

" Books/' he said. t% Her 

McVeigh rose with a 
grimace of pain and went 
to his side. There were a 
score of books on the 
shelves that Carter had 
placed in the box — finger- 
marked, worn, and patched. 
One by one Carter took 
them out and handled 
them fondly* 

" She's read "cm aloud to 
me — every one/ 1 he said, 
" Most of 'em she's read 
twice or three times, an' 
one we almost know by 
heart. We have fun seein' 
who can say the most of 
it without looking at the 
pages. She beats me out 
every time/* 

He gave the book to Mc- 
Veigh, who turned over one 
of the frayed and worn 
pages and placed a fore- 
finger on a couple of verses 
written in a woman's hand. 

"She wrote that/' he ex- 
plained, "It's goin' to be 
the kid's first prayer," 

His back was to McVeigh 
as he replaced the book in 
its place on the shelf, Mc- 
Veigh leaned over and saw 
something else. Carter 
turned in time to catch the 
inquiry in his face. He 
had dropped the curtain, 
but drew it aside again and 
took out that which Mc- 
Veigh had seen* 

11 It's her picture — m\ 
wife/' he said, 

McVeigh turned to the 
tjngi tight, and his face was away 



the photograph. It was a uondrously sweet 
face in the picture. It looked straight at 
him, and in the pure, deep eyes there was a 
glow of life that sent a strange thrill through 
him. He did not reveal its effect as he re- 
turned the picture to Carter. 

A blast of the storm swept loudly over the 
cabin. McVeigh shivered and laughed, and 
there was something unnatural in the tone 
of his voice when he spoke. 

" By the sound of that I guess mebby 
you'll have to put off that trip you was 
goin' to begin in the morning, won't you, 
Carter ? " he asked. 

For a moment the eyes of the two men met. 
Carter smiled as he seated himself opposite 
the man-hunter. 

" The storm won't stop me," he said. " I've 
got six good huskies and a sledge, and we'll 
strike the shelter of heavier timber twenty 
miles to the south. It ain't very polite to 
leave you in this way, McVeigh, but I've got 
to do it." 

" I'd like to wager that you don't get 
through," said McVeigh, leaning over until 
his face was in shadow. " They're lookin' 
close for you all the way between Churchill 
and Nelson House. They've got an idea you'll 
try to slip out, and that you'll surely hit the 
old trails if you do. It'll go even worse with 
you now, after sending this bullet through 

Carter rose and stretched himself. 

" Let's not talk about unpleasant things," 
he said. He looked critically into the man- 
hunter's eyes. " You'd better go to bed, or 
you'll have fever in the morning," he advised. 
44 And don't go sleep-walkin' around, looking 
for guns during the night. I've cached 'em 
all — except this — and I'll have this handy, 
an' I don't sleep very sound." He let McVeigh 
see the cold glitter of a Savage automatic, 
and then smoothed out the blankets in the 

McVeigh crawled in, and Carter turned down 
the light. For a long time he sat near the 
stove smoking. Outside the storm swept over 
the cabin with greater violence, and now and 
then, when there came a lull in the fierce 
sweep of it across the Barren, Carter prayed 
each time that the worst of it was over. 
But even if it continued until morning and 
through the next day, he had made up his 
mind to begin his flight southward with dawn. 
The thought that he was going, that McVeigh 
had changed all his plans, and that within a 
few weeks he would again be with the woman 
he loved, robbed him of all desire for sleep. 
His plans had come quickly, and they seemed 

so perfect that he wondered why he had never 
thought of them before. He would be in 
Montreal almost before McVeigh could take 
word of his escape to Churchill, and before 
that word could follow him to civilization he 
and Isobel could be in almost any part of the 
world they chose. An hour or two later he 
began to gather the few necessities for his 
pack. IV 

McVeigh was sound asleep when Carter 
roused him in the morning. He sat up with 
a grunt of pain, and the outlaw helped him 
to his feet. It was quiet outside. McVeigh 
knew without questioning that the storm was 
at an end. Carter's pack was ready in the 
middle of the floor, with his snowshoes King 
beside it. Breakfast was ready. 

" Sorry to wake you," apologized Carter, 
" but I want to dress that shoulder again 
before I go." 

As Carter bathed the wound, he said : — 

" Funny things — human beings are, ain't 
they ? Seems as though we all ought to be 
friends, an' yet most of us are enemies — 
just like a lot of buzzards, every one of us 
watchin' for some other poor cuss to make 
a misstep. Then we're down on 'im like 
grin death, an' chuck 'im in jail, or murder 
'im with electricity, or break his neck with a 
rope. Now — right this minute — you'd hand 
me over to that thing you call the law if 
you could, wouldn't you ? " 

McVeigh nodded. 

" Sure," he said. " And I expect to get 
you, too, Carter. I've got a commission to 
run you down, dead or alive, if it takes five 

Carter was silent until they sat down to 
breakfast. He helped McVeigh to a plate of 
venison stew and a pint of coffee. 

" Did you ever see a man hanged, 
McVeigh ? " he asked. 

" Never had that pleasure," he replied. 

Carter shivered. 

" I did — once," he said. " Heavens, what 
a place hell must be, McVeigh ! It's filled 
with jurors, an' judges, an' witnesses, an' 
not so much with murderers as you'd think. 
When you kill a man by your vote in the 
jury-box you're doin' it deliberit, an' all 
you've got to do is just once to see a man 
hung to know what sort of a crime it is. 
An' you'd send me to the rope-end if you 
could, wouldn't you ? " 

" Mebby you'd get off with ten or twenty 
years," temporized the man-hunter. 

" No-I wouldn't," said Carter. " They'd 
hang me. OVVapfltaf ftfw* was that ? " 




He turned swiftly and faced the door* 
McVeigh straightened. Carter did not see the 
gleam that shot like a flash- of lightning into 
his eyes. The outlaw turned towards him. 

" Did you hear anything ? " he asked. 

" One of the huskies whining," said 
McVeigh. " That was all." 

Carter laughed uneasily. 

" Guess I'm a little nervous," he confessed. 
" Have another plate of stew ? " 

McVeigh passed his plate. His eyes were 
on the door. In another moment it had 
opened, and he sprang to his feet with a cry 
of joy and triumph on his lips. Carter 
whirled about, a hand on his automatic. But 
he did not draw. What he saw paralyzed 
him, and his face turned ash-grey. Three 
men came in, and when they saw McVeigh 
they paused in astonishment. In another 
moment they were shaking McVeigh's good 
hand. Carter moved towards the door, but 
McVeigh was ahead of him, smiling, cool. 
The man-hunter closed it, and shot the bolt. 
While the others were throwing off their fur 
caps and heavy coats, and excusing their 
sudden entrance to Carter, he drew a stool in 
front of the door and sat down with his back 
against it. He smiled straight into Carter's 
eyes. Then, one after the other, he intro- 
duced the three men to him — Sergeant 
Walker, Constable Conway, and Constable 
Pierre, of the Fort Churchill patrol, on their 
way back to the Bay from the Fond du Lac 
country. He introduced Carter as Williams, 
by which name he was known at the post. 

" I had an accident," he explained. " An' 
Williams — took me in. Have you had 
breakfast, boys ? " 

" An hour ago," Walker replied. " We're 
making double-quick for Churchill, a week 
behind schedule. What's the matter ? " 

" Shot," said McVeigh. 

He looked at Carter. The outlaw had 

turned his back to him, and was looking 

straight out through the one window into the 

grey gloom of the Barren. It was good that 

McVeigh did not see his face. There was no 

longer fear there. His hand rested on his 

automatic. He coughed to cover the metallic 

click of the safety as he thrust it back with 

his thumb. He was planning now more 

swiftly than he had ever planned in his life. 

There were three against him. In his 

automatic there were ten shots. He turned 

slowly, and sat down on the edge of his bunk. 

The sergeant and his men were staring at 

McVeigh. Before they could question him, 

McVeigh said : — 

" I won't be able to move for a week or ten 
Vol. xivii.-ia 

days, Sergeant, and I want to send a report of 
the affair down to headquarters. Get out 
pencil and paper and write it for me, will you ? 
Guess I can scratch my name at the bottom." 

Carter pointed to the muslin-covered box. 

" There's paper and a pencil there," he 
Said. " Help yourself." 

His voice was cold and quiet. McVeigh 
stared at him. He did not catch the slow 
movement with which Carter drew hu auto- 
matic and slipped it under the edge of the 
blanket on which he sat, his fingers gripping 
the butt. Conway got the pencil and paper, 
and Sergeant Walker cleared the table. 

Slowly, as if he meant that in his triumph 
every word should be an added torture to 
the trapped outlaw, McVeigh began his story. 

" I beg to report," he began his dictation, 
" that on the first of January I set out from 
Churchill on the trail of Bob Carter, the 
murderer, with instructions to get my man, 
dead or alive." And then, looking straight 
across at Carter as he spoke, he briefly told 
his story up to the hour of the fight. For a 
moment he hesitated, and Carter's fingers 
tightened about his automatic. The moment 
of action was almost at hand. Walker, at 
the table, was at a disadvantage. He would 
take Pierre and Conway first, and then 
Walker. With satisfaction he noted that the 
flaps of their revolver holsters were buttoned 
down. He even smiled across at McVeigh. 
And then McVeigh began to tell of the duel 
at the foot of the ridge. He told of the last 
shot, of rising, staggering out from behind 
his hummock, and falling. 

" When I returned to consciousness," he 
went on, " I was in this cabin. Williams had 
found me in time, and brought me here. It 
was then that I found " 

He paused, and for a full ten seconds his 
eves met Carter's. 
' " What ? " asked Sergeant Walker. 

" That my last shot had killed Carter," he 
finished. " That's about all for a preliminary, 
Walker. I'll make the full report when I 
reach Churchill. Tell Renshaw I'll be there 
within ten days or two weeks." He spoke 
directly to Carter now. " What time is it, 
Williams ? " he asked. 

Like one in a dream Carter looked at his 

" Nine o'clock," he choked. 

McVeigh rose with a laugh. 

" If you're going to get that message of 
mine down to Jan Rien's on time you'd 
better hustle," he said. 

Carter put on his coat and cap, and picked 

u P his P^/E^ITV^FfflfCRMj 10 s P eak ' 




But at the door he gripped McVeigh's hand, l< Queer acting chap — that Williams," said 

and McVeigh whispered, " If it's a boy you Walker. 

night call *im Bill, That's my name," :f Yes, queer — very queer," agreed McVeigh. 

Then he thrust Carter out, closed the dooFj " Do you mind loading my pipe for 

and turned tpwfW"4§ his comrades. Walker ? i gnoss I nerd a smoke/ 1 


■ me. 

Sliockless • 





Author r/ ** Sfovtu/K — (he New Anmiktiu % n etc. 

GEORGE \V, Cttll.K, THE EUI\fc\l 

HE year 19 13 witnessed the 
general introduction of a new 
word into surgical litera- 
ture. This new word is 
" anoci-associatron." A mys- 
terious, even a barbarous, 
word it seems to most of us. 
The nineteenth century, however, witnessed 
the coining of two other words, both of them, 
in the early days, rather difficult and puzzling. 
The first of these was " anaesthesia" ; the 
second was " antisepsis." There arc few 
intelligent persons now who do not regard 
these words as part of their everyday vocabu- 
lary. In all probability not many years will 
elapse before we shall talk with similar glib- 
ness and understanding of anoci-association. 
Anaesthesia and antisepsis have passed into 
current speech because they express two of 
the greatest and most beneficent facts in 
human history. They represent the two 
procedures that have abolished pain and 
created the modern science of surgery, Anoci- 
association completes the work that these 
two agencies have begun. Its purpose is to 
relieve the surgical operation of its only 
remaining terror. 

Morton, the discoverer of the anaesthetic 
properties of ether, was an American. Lister, 
the discoverer of antisepsis, was an English- 
man, George W, Crile, who has evolved this 
new method of anoc (-association, is an 

One Surgicjl Horror Still Remained — Death from 

Anaesthesia produced surgical quiet and 
unconsciousness of pain, Antisepsis and 

asepsis made operations clean and abolished 
wound infections. Still one surgical horror 
remained. There continued to be operations 
that succeeded but in which the patient died. 
This phrase was now used to describe that 
peculiar but common phenomenon known as 
u death from shock," In many ways this 
has proved the most baffling problem of all. 
There was something about it that was 
mysterious. One could guard against the 
obvious danger of death from the anaesthetic ; 
but the spectre "shock " hung over every 
ope rating -table, striking at most unexpected 
places. Strong men and women, after a pro- 
longed operation, would find themselves, on 
the return of consciousness, in about the 
same condition as the victim of inquisitorial 
torture. The skin would be cold and moist, 
the face pale, the muscles relaxed, the 
respiration shallow, the intellect slow and 
dull. In numerous cases "shock" killed 
the patient directly under the surgeon's 

The science of surgery has had difficult;; in 
combating this dangerous condition, largely 
because it has had no clearly-defined idea of 
what it was, Dr, Crik% however, has devoted 
a considerable portion of the last fifteen years 
to studying this problem. He has made 
several thousand experiments upon animals ; 
has made countless observations of the effects 
of various anaesthetics on human beings ; 
and has written many elaborate papers. As 
a result of his labours, he has formulated 
a complete theory of shock, and devised a 
detailed procedure for overcoming it, Accord- 

ing niiHi«.f 0Cki5no 

i 4 8 


isolated phenomenon. It is a commonplace 
fact of our everyday lives- 
All of us, in both our waking and our 
sleeping hours ? are constantly suffering front 
varying degrees of shock. Whenever we run 
to catch a train 3 whenever we are depressed 
or elated by the sudden 
receipt of news, when- 
ever we overwork — horn 
the candle at both ends 
— we are " shocked/' In 
most cases the pheno- 
menon is so slight that 
only a momentary sen- 
sation of fatigue results; 
at other times the system 
is so disorganized that 
there is a long succession 
of sleepless 'nights, of 
agonized days — a con- 
dition that finds its 
outward expression in 
such physical signs as 
loss of weight 3 impaired 
circulation, and a ner- 
vous " touchiness" that 
makes one *' jump " at the closing of a door or 
the scraping of a newspaper. The boy who 
" stubs" his bare toe upon a sharp stone, and 
the man who survives a railroad smash-up, are 
both sufferers from lt shock " ; the nervous 
disorganization that follows is essentially the 
same as that of the patient after a surgical 
operation. The only difference is in the 
intensity of the experience. 

In finding an explanation of " shock," Dr* 
Crile goes back lo the twilight of the race — to 
the slow, tiresome ages when the human 
organism was evolving itself from lower forms. 
Like many other phenomena that now seem 


A 'SHOCK. 1 " 

Normal. Fatigued- Exhausted. 


unnecessary and harmful, *' shock * ? is really 
;>art of the beneficent order of the universe; 
without it the higher animals would never 
have survived at all. In other words 
" shock/' like physical pain, is protective in 

easily drawn off as the water can be drawn 
from a welL 

In all our physical and emotional crises 
to-day, the fir^i thin£ we do is to call upon 

^^rWWfefl&llff nervous ener *>' ; 

its nature ; it is part of that invisible armour 
which Nature has provided for man in the 
titanic struggle he has waged with the ex- 
ternal world. This power of li shock ?1 is 
part and parcel of what the evolutionists call 
man's u phytogeny " — the qualities that he ha5 
acquired in the millions 
of years h? has been 
developing as a race. 

The Brain a Storage Battery 
o( Nervous Energy, 

In those primordial 
days the existence of 
the human animal 
depended upon three 
things: its self-defence 
against its enemies, the 
acquisition of food, and 
procreation. For the 
accomplishment of these 
three ends ? Nature has 
cunningly devised the 
most ingenious and re- 
condite mechanism. The 
one thing essential is 
what is known, for the want of a better 
name, as nervous energy. The head- 
quarters of this nervous energy is, of course, 
the brain. Within our skulls lies a great 
storage battery ; in normal people the brain- 
cells are charged with energy, which, for 
specific purposes , can be set free for the body'? 
preservation. And in using the words (i ner- 
vous energy JI it must be clearly kept in mind 
that something definite is implied* The 
energy of the brain is just as much a physical 
substance as the steam in a boiler or the 
electricity in a battery. The brain contains 
so much energy and no more j it can be a* 





in the dark back- 
ward of time ? when 
the determining 
rule among human 
beings and animals 
was that of tooth 
and claw, these 
calls were espe- 
cially insistent. It 
was particularly to 
meet difficulties of 
this kind — to take 
due precaution, 
that is, that the 
race might survive 
— that Nature cre- 
ated this great 
reservoir. In those 
early days the 
barefoot man — 
like the barefoot 
boy to-day— might 
accidentally step 
on a sharp stone 
or a thorn* Imme- 
diately the injured 
part telegraphed to 
the brain for help. This central organ sent back 
instantaneously a current of energy by which, 
translated into muscular action, the foot was 
withdrawn. As part of this mechanism our 
ancestors developed certain points of contact 
which their more scientific descendants have 
catalogued as " noci-ceptors." These are 
really push-buttons placed at certain parts of 
the body especially subject to injury. When 
an external stimulus touches them the 
alarm is sounded at once; and the brain 
begins to discharge energy to the afflicted 

That this whole arrangement is protective 
is indicated by the fact that it is only those 
parts of the body that are especially exposed 
to injury that have these noci-ceptors. The 
brain j which is sufficiently protected by the 
skull and the cerebral meninges, has no noci- 
ceptors at all. 

Perhaps the most exposed part of the body 
is the abdomen. In man's conflict with the 
pristine animals this was the part that was 
constantly gnashed and clawed at. As a 
consequence, here the noci-ceptors are 
especially numerous, The deep spinal region 
of the back, which is practically inaccessible, 
has none. The chest f which shelters the 
heart and the lungs, developed a complete 

fire -alarm system of its own ; so did the 

lateral walls of the trunk, the hands, anc 
especially, the feet. 

" Tictlingp" One Form of Shock, 

How much humankind has outgrown the 
necessity for this protective mechanism is well 
emphasized by the common phenomenon 
known as tl tickling. JJ When you hike a 
child and " tickle " it between the ribs, it 
giggles and squirms ; the fact that in doing 
this it is repeating the dim ancestral history 
of the race never once occurs to you. What 
you have done, when you have tickled the 
child, is to touch its (t noci-ccptors ,J — its 
push - buttons. These notify the brain ; 
energy rushes down by way of the nerves, 
and the muscular action results. In the 
evolutionary ages, when a hungry animal 
crept up behind this child's ancestor and 
seised it in the same spot upon which 
you just put your fingers, the u tickling" 
sensation served a really useful purpose. The 
muscular action that followed was not play- 
fulness, but represented a deadly and serious 
struggle for life, 

If you take a man to-day, tie him down, 
and tickle him for a few minutes, he will 
become as exhausted as if he had run a Mara- 
thon race. Throughout the operation the 
brain has been responding to the summons by 
discharging energy, and has been propor- 
tionately weakened by its labours, Perhaps 
the most remarkable evidence of the pro- 
tective purposes of tickling is that furnished 
by the nose and throat. If one tickles the 
inside of the nostrils s there is a sneeze ; a 
similar agitation of the throat produces 
a cough. In the good old times these spasms 
were veritable life-savers. For our careless 
progenitors, excellent sanitarians that they 
were, used to 
sleep in the 
open air. Vari- 
ous forms of 
insect life 
crawled freely 
over them f and 
frequently en^ 
tered the mouth 
and nostrils. 
The "noci- 
ceptors' 1 at 
once notified 
the brain ; the 
energy caused 
a sneeze or a 
cough, and the 
curious i n - 
truders were 

thus expelled, rig^jj^hi 

®'74\ I r OlOOUtS AND 

s ti c MfflM0&ITY OF MI6W.«ft»-" 



manifestations as tickling , unless the tick- 
ling is continuous and prolonged, naturally 
make insignificant draughts upon the stored- 
up energy of the brain* More serious 
bodily injuries, however, produce the most 
exhausting effects. As already said, the 
supply of cerebral energy is limited. The 
brain-cells are so much poorer for everypart icle 
of energy discharged. As this mighty force 
disappears j mental and physical exhaustion 
increases, and if the 
procedure is continuous 
there inevitably comes 
a time when the cere- 
bral hemispheres are 
nothing but empty 
shells ; thev die, and 
general physical death 
soon follows. 

The most devastating 
effects are produced by 
tearing and crushing. 
If we should slice a 
man's body into ribbons 
with a sharp razor, only 
a moderate amount of 
mental disturbance 
would supervene ; in 
shaving, for example, 
we seldom realize that 
we have cut ourselves 
until the blood appears 
crushing that primeval 
his struggle for existence made the largest 
demands upon his cerebral energy ; such an 
experience itself } independently of the physical 
wounds, was sufficient to produce death 
through cerebral exhaustion. 

Death from a Broken Heart Entirely Possible. 

It was not only physical injury : however, 
that made these heavy demands upon our 
ancestors. Mental injury had identical 
results. 'Here, again, Nature's motive was 
protective — part of her mechanism to pre- 
serve the race, Our emotions— fear, grief, 
love, hate — produce the same mechanical 
disturbances in the brain as does physical 
injury. According to Dr. Cr lie's discoveries, 
the much-derided death from a " broken 
heart" is entirely possible. The continued 
emotional tension of such a sufferer draws 
largely upon the stored -up enerpy in the 
brain-cells, the chemical compounds " break 
down/' and certain essential elements are set 
free. The result is cerebral exhaustion ; in 
cases where the psychic condition lasts long 
enough, death necessarily result^ \ni[p 


The tearing and 
man endured in 

In primeval days, however, the predominant 
psychic disturbance was fear. Fear, when 
analyzed, is merely one form of memory — the 
r eco i le c t ion o f p hy s i ca 1 i n j ur y* Th e fi r s t man . 
when attacked by the jungle's most ferocious 
beast, experienced no fear — his mind 
associated nothing destructive with it. His 
descendants, however* learned to associate 
such attacks with bodily injury ; and this 
association explains the emotional stale 
known as- fear. Again 
Nature developed this 
association so that man 
could protect himself. 
At the approach of 
animals fear now per- 
suaded him to run or 
to climb a tree, or to 
defend himself- Ac- 
cording to Dr. CriJe, 
only those animals 
whose means of defence 
is muscular experience 
fear ; a skunk or a 
porcupine , animals that 
do not fight their 
enemies with their mus- 
cles, know no fear. 
The same explanation 
makes it clear why the 
average human being is 
so afraid of blood. There is nothing in 
blood nc<.vs<arily lerrilyinir ; in reality, 
it is very beautiful. Only an age-long 
association of blood with physical injury 
makes us afraid of it. When it appears on 
a woman's cheek , under a transparent skin, 
we admire it* 

Actual experiments conducted by Dr. Crile 
have demonstrated that all these emotions, 
especially fearj produce exhausting changes 
in the brain-cells. The brain of a rabbit 
that has been frightened shows marked signs 
of degeneration ; it has lost certain chemical 
substances that are the physical basis of the 
phenomenon we know as nervous energy* Dr. 
Crile has analyzed the brain of a fox that has 
been chased a couple of hours by hunters. 
Here, again, physical degeneration is manifest. 
The brain of a dog, after a prolonged fight, 
discloses the same condition of exhaustion. 
In all cases, these animal brains 

are in 

essentially the same condition as that of a 
woman who has died of a broken heart or of 
an animal that has been shocked to death by 
physical injury. Particular chemical sub- 
stances have been dissipated. And so all 
psychic earthquakes exhaust the mental 
energy ofQftflifi ^ I TUft'Tifear of approaching 




injury harms the brain almost as much as the 
actual injury itself. 

The bearing of all this upon " surgical 
shock " is now evident. It explains precisely 
what surgical shock is. It is cerebral exhaus- 
tion, the loss of certain quantities of nervous 
energies stored in the brain. This phenome- 
non differs only in degree from the mental 
disturbance caused by striking the toe against 
a sharp stone or running a Marathon race. 
Certain operations produce slight cerebral 
disturbance and occasion only slight shock. 
Most make varying demands upon brain- 
energy and are responsible for the period of 
exhaustion that follows. In some cases — 
unfortunately, in too many — the injury is so 
severe and so continuous that the cerebral 
cells are virtually destroyed, and death 

The Surgeon Restores the Age of "Tooth and 

In its practical effects upon the brain the 
surgeon is really restoring the long-departed 
era of " tooth and claw." The external cir- 
cumstances, for a man on the operating- table, 
are strikingly like those of his remote jungle- 
prowling ancestor. The patient suffers enor- 
mously from fear — that is to say, the anticipa- 
tion of bodily injury. Everything about the 
surgical chamber suggests the terrible things 
that are to come. The anxious faces of his 
relatives, the corrugated brow of the surgeon, 
the quickly-moving white-robed nurses, the 
white iron bedstead, the bare sanitary walls 
of the hospital, the pervading odour of ether — 
in all these things the weary, harassed brain 
foresees only the forthcoming laceration of 
tissues. The mere sight of surgical instru- 
ments in itself produces a certain quantity of 
" surgical shock." The administration of 
the ether and the suffocation that accom- 
panies it are responsible for the wildest kind 
of " brain-storms.' ' All this, of course, is 
emotional, " psychic," the working of mind 
upon matter ; but the effect upen the brain- 
cells is just as physical as bodily injury. 

The operation that follows even more 
vividly reproduced man's primordial struggles. 
For only those parts of the body are suscep- 
tible to shock that were the most popular 
points of attack in the days of the jungle. In 
that far-off time it was particular areas — the 
abdomen, the chest, the neck and throat, the 
hands and feet, the lateral walls of the trunk 
— that had constantly to defend themselves 
against attack ; these sections developed, as 
has been described, certain " noci-ceptors," 
or fire-alarms. Other parts, especially the 

brain, were so well fortified that this protec- 
tive apparatus was not evolved. Conse- 
quently, the brain, at the surgeon's hands, 
cannot possibly be shocked. The surgeon can 
entirely destroy one hemisphere without 
causing the slightest " exhaustion." Opera- 
tions for brain tumours, which are very 
common to-day, are, therefore, entirely free 
from this danger. 

Surgical shock, therefore, is composed of 
two factors : psychic, or the disintegrating 
effects of tense emotion, and " traumatic," or 
that which is caused by tissue laceration — 
anticipation of injury, and injury itself. The 
patient's position is that of the engineer or 
fireman in a railroad disaster. He suffers 
the emotional anticipation of the smash-up, 
and is also physically injured. In other 
words, he is usually shocked twice. The 
only way to recover from cerebral exhaustion 
is by resting ; the battery must be recharged. 

Nothing seems less consequential than the 
falling of a single drop of water on the body. 
This drop produces an infinitely small amount 
of shock ; however, a single instance is 
nothing. When one drop succeeds another 
before the injured area has had time to recover 
from the slight shock inflicted, the procedure 
ultimately becomes one of the acutest forms 
of torture. It was a form of inflicting pain 
especially popular in the Middle Ages. Simi- 
larly, a prolonged surgical operation which 
lasts for many hours, and in which injury 
is piled upon injury, with no intervals for 
recuperation, tremendously strains the brain- 
cells. A death from emotional tension, or 
from a " broken heart," is an illustration, in 
the mental state, of the same thing. 

Anaesthesia Does Not Prevent Shock. 

At this point, however, there is apparently 
one distinction. The mediaeval sufferer, under 
the water-drop form of torture, was entirely 
conscious ; the modern patient, under the 
surgeon's hands, is in the deep sleep of anaes- 
thesia. What effect does the anaesthetic 
have upon that part of shock that comes 
from physical injury ? The fact of the 
matter is that, under chloroform and ether 
anaesthesia, only a small part of the brain is 
really asleep. 

The beautiful thing about ether is that it 
puts asleep the seat of consciousness without 
disturbing the other sections of the brain. 
Now the stimulus of injury is carried to the 
brain, and the released energy dashes back 
to the injured part by way of the nerves. 
No matter how deen our anaesthesia, this 

mechani ii^M^f#(!^r on - ^ 



brain suffers all the exhausting injuries, only 
it knows nothing about them. But the 
practical effects are just the same as if it did. 
The condemned murderer would probably 
experience much relief if we should anaesthetize 
him before hanging ; no one suspects, how- 
ever, that the anaesthesia would at all minimize 
the actual results of the hanging. 

Dr. Crile's remedy for both psychic and 
traumatic shock is the new elaborate pro- 
cedure which he calls anoci-association. The 
word means, as he describes it, " the exclu- 
sion of all nocuous or harmful associations or 

Here, for example, is a man who is about 
to be subjected to a long and difficult opera- 
tion ; the kind that is most likely to produce 
shock. The preliminary dread, even with 
the most strong-minded men, is intense, and 
the task of overcoming or minimizing this 
dread is a problem that is solved partly by 
psychology and partly by drugging. The 
personality of the surgeon counts for much. 
The selection of the proper kind of nurses, 
the maintenance of a helpful attitude by 
friends and family, are all important. 

A favourite plan is not to let the patient 
know when the operation is to take place. 
On several successive days a slight anaesthetic 
is given, ostensibly for the purpose of examina- 
tion. When the suitable moment arrives, 
this anaesthetic is given in earnest and the 
operation performed. A few grains of mor- 
phine and scopolamine, injected about an 
hour before the operation, works wonders in 
the same direction. For fear, as already 
described, is a product of what the psycho- 
logists call " association of ideas." The sight 
of a knife suggests cutting, that of a fire sug- 
gests burning. But morphine produces one 
amazing effect upon the brain, in that it 
deprives it of this power of associating one 
thing with another. A man who is sufficiently 
" doped " is never a coward and never a hero, 
because he has no power of connecting any 
act with its consequences. Consequently, 
after Dr. Crile's patient has received these 
few grains of morphine he no longer has the 
slightest apprehension about what is to hap- 
pen. All danger of " psychic shock " has 

"Blocking Off" the Body. 

In this way " psychic shock " is largely 
eliminated, 'but the much more serious 
problem of " traumatic shock " still remains. 
As already explained, patients are shocked 
under the anaesthetic precisely as they would 
be shocked under full consciousness, because 

the nerves, like telegraph wires, are still con- 
nected with the brain. Clearly, there is only 
one way to prevent the lacerated tissues 
from telegraphing for assistance and thus 
inducing nervous exhaustion, and that is by 
cutting the wires. If the surgeon, for ex- 
ample, were able to block out his zone of 
operation, and then cut with his knife every 
nerve that gave this region communication 
with the brain, the stimuli of injury would 
never reach it. The operation area, for 
practical purposes, would be as isolated as if 
the surgeon had excised it and carried it into 
an adjoining room. 

Naturally, there are practical objections 
to cutting these nerves with a knife. A local 
anaesthetic, however, such as cocaine or novo- 
caine, accomplishes this result quite as well. 
These drugs destroy sensation in the parts 
of the body to which they are applied, because 
they paralyze the nerves ; make them in- 
capable of transmitting feeling or motion ; 
in other words, they " cut the wires." The 
surgeon, as Dr. Crile has discovered, can per- 
form the most prolonged and radical opera- 
tions in an area blocked off in this fashion, 
without producing the slightest deteriorating 
effects upon the brain. Modern surgery has 
regarded that terrible feeling of exhaustion 
which follows long operations as inevitable. 
Under anoci-association, however, there is 
no exhaustion, because there has been no 
expenditure of nervous force ; the modem 
scientist has cunningly cheated .even so clever 
a mechanician as Nature herself, or, as Dr. 
Crile expresses it, has won " in a game of 
biologic chess." 

The records of the Lakeside Hospital in 
Cleveland, where Dr. Crile works, show that 
the death-rate under the old ether procedure 
was slightly more than six in a thousand. 
Under anoci-association the death-rate is less 
than one in a thousand. In other words, the 
dangers of death from shock have been 
reduced practically to the vanishing-point. 

" I have used the method of Crile for many 
months," says Sir Berkeley Moynihan, one of 
the most eminent of English surgeons, in his 
recent address before the British Medical 
Association, " and it has added a pleasure to 
my work that is really immeasurable. To 
the great discoveries of Morton and Lister, 
this of Crile seems to be the fitting comple- 
tion. . . . The debt of surgery to this most 
acute, most versatile, and most patient 
observer was already a heavy one, but I think 
that, to the surgeon of tender heart, his latest 
work must bijflg the most profound satis- 





Illustrated ty Treyer Evans. 


Being of a hopelessly hopeful temperament James Bright says : " Everybody in the wee 1 ** *« 
good— but nobody knows it, except me." 

James is a manufacturer and patentee of cooking utensils. At thirtV'nins he is extremely wealthy, 
but — here is the thorn in his ro;es — while he is impressed by a rich man's duty of expend ture. his 
sound, bright, and sensible wife, Catharine, cannot overcome her habits of economy. They live in a 
little Hampstead house with two cheap maids, and employ a jobbing gardener. " This is not my duty/' 
says James as he looks around him ; " my duty is to circulate money, to prosper trade, to beautify 
charming women." But Catharine won't be beautified; she won't be expensive. James give; her a 
blank (signed) cheque-book. Virtuously she refuses to use it. Gods I what a dilemma for a 
conscientious fellow I 

No one sympathizes. When he talks to his worldly friend, Edmund Tonbridge, about the 
dif ficu ty, Tonbridge laughs. James on beautifying women causes Tonbridge's tongue to cleave to his 
cheek. How James hates this ribald attitude of a ribald and suspicious world which is so good really, 
and will not believe it ! 

The Brig^ts' near neighbours at Hampstead are a widowed Mrs. Hunter and her daughter 
Eva, a sweet young girl whom James would like to beautify and make happy as part of his scheme 
of things. 

He has a great and good idea. Having just established new branches in Oxford, Bristol, 
Birmingham, Manchester, Glasgow, and Bombay, he will rightly tax each branch by making it provide a 
luxurious home for some needy— and charming — woman, to whom James will feel as an uncle. The first 
object of this quest he finds in Gwen Raymond, a girl travelling from Paddington to Worcester — James 
being bound for Oxford — to take an uncongenial situation. Tonbridge has seen James off and observed 
the girl. James installs her — explaining to her about the stupendous goodness of the world — in a 
house at Oxford. Proceeding to Bristol, of course on a business visit, James finds a charming and 
impecunious young woman, by name Maggie Fields, who is persuaded to avail herself also of hi* 
benevolent scheme. At Birmingham a Miss Nora Patrick accepts a pretty nest and the use of a car. 

Worried by the future of his wife's late cook, Dorothy Dormer — summarily dismissed for 
wastefulness — James, faint yet pursuing, pursues her, even through the terrors of a servants' registry 
office, and having found her. and prevailed against all her natural suspicions with the courage born 
of his invincible faith and hope in all humanity, he installs her in luxury in Manchester. 

He is not blind to the advantages of having built himself these charming nests in the various 
cities in which his business lies. He wonders if many rich business men do likewise. 

Returning home from these successful excursions James learns that his incorrigibly economical 
wife has engaged as cook, at a low salary, ihe pretty Eva Hunter, for whom James's kind heart 
bleeds anew. This gives him gravely to think. 

HEN Eva went home, after 
sharing a simple lunch with 
Mrs. Bright the following 
day, her mother met her 
with a typed envelope. 

" For you/' she said, 
further remarking: " It has 
a City post-mark." 

Eva took the letter away from her mother, 
went upstairs, and locked her door. 

The letter was very short, jya4 begged Miss 
Eva, if it were possible, to call at James's 

Vol. xlvii.— 19. 

Gracechurch Street office that afternoon. On 
reading this, she at once put on her best frock 
and hat, counted all her money into a new 
bag-purse, and left the house without even 
apprising her mother. 

James found her a pretty vision, bursting 
into his dusky office with a radiant air of 
expectation. He found that she required to 
be taken out immediately to tea. For the 
furtherance of his mission a full and noisy 
place was unthinkable, so he took her to 
Bond Street in a taxicab. 




M I must apologize/' James said, " for 
troubling you to come all this way, but 
it is so difficult to get a chance of talking to 
you by yourself," 

His complete innocence still blinded him tu 
her fluttering. He took her into the Bond 
Street tea-shop, without so much as a thought 
as to what this maiden might, in her secret 
heart , be feeling, found 
a screened corner, drew 
the screen a little more 
protecting! y round 
them, and beamed , 

" Now/ T he said, " wc 
can talk/' 

said Miss Eva, 
might like it. 

James cried, 

dear, are within 


He did most of the talking, while Eva 
gormandized. He began, bending earnestly 
towards her: " Do you like your new — er — 
situation — with my wife ? " And he ran on ; 
answering himself, compassionately : " Like 
it ! Great Jupiter, no I How could you ? 
You're a young thing— a remarkably pretty 
young thing, il I may be allowed the great 
liberty — and what you want is money. 
What you want is enjoyment — theatres ? 
frocks, a ^jfj^g^yi^^^l^li^ you 

would even enjoy n — he repeated Catharine 

— M a house of your own. 1 * 
* 4 Perhaps I should/' 
ironically j u perhaps I 
Oh, yes* perhaps I y} 

Perceiving the irony 
happily : — 

(t All these things, my 
your reach." 

She stared at James with bii:, 
round eyes. He had now be- 
come accustomed to doing this 
business rapidly, and he pro- 
« ceded to sketch out the plan. 
The Idea broke upon her like 
a thunderbolt- 
The girl sat and 
looked at him. She 
looked and looked 
and looked, leav- 
ing even straw- 
berries and cream 
for rapt and dread- 
ful contemplation 
of his good, pink 
visage, till he, 
familiar now with 
the Idea in all its 
aspects, began 
again to experi- 
ence his virgin 

"All/ 1 he said, 
hurriedly, with a 
noble gesture of 
the hand express - 
ing abnegation, 
" all, you under- 
stand, strictly in 
your own right. 
All absolutely 
honourable. AH a 
pure scheme for 
your happiness and 
the satisfaction of 
my sense of duty. 
AH — all — ntirci) 
com me il faut" 
Still Eva sat astounded, and now she began 
to blush, and she blushed and blushed till 
she glowed over the dawning of James's new 
content like a sunrise. Meanwhile he regarded 
the tea-pot delicately, and drummed upon 
his knee, 

"If you will think over the position for an 
unbiased moment,'" he continued, " you will 
own that an elderly man — — " 

Not elderly— j .Eva murmured, 

ili^ffl^d, pardonably a little 

, unjvBHt?8 

— \ 



gratified, " have the privilege of ministering 
in many small ways to a young girl ; of 
securing to her the pristine happiness which 
becomes her so charmingly ; of — in short, 
of doing many things over which a young 
man " — he paused — " a younger man 
would rightly hesitate. His feeling is purely 
paternal, or at least avuncular. You will 
surely own this ? " 

It was clear in the resulting pause that 
Eva was attempting to take a really unbiased 
view of the position. He respected this 
silence, till, while he still looked at the tea- 
pot, he became aware that she made a quick 
movement as if to rise. Instantly he pleaded 
with her passionately. He begged for belief 
— presently she believed. He urged the 
difficult suit for the Glasgow house — she 
began one by one to abandon her tenets. He 
advised strongly, as a business man, a 
thorough consideration of this opening — she 
gave it her consideration. 

She said, with a gasp in her voice, " I shall 
do it ! " 

" Of course you will, my dear," replied 
James, quietly. 

" When ? " gasped Eva. 

James drummed on his knee, and pursed 
his lips. 

" The sooner the better," he replied. 

" My luggage ! " said Eva. 

He swept that away. 

" Your luggage, my poor girl ! What's 
your luggage ? There's a good bank account 
at your disposal. You can dip your hands 
into it at once ; you :an come out with me 
now and shop ; then I'll take you straight 
on to Glasgow to-night, and to-morrow we 
can finish buying every single thing you ever 
wanted. Or/' said James, " you can put it 
off. You can go home now." 

" Perhaps," faltered Eva, " I'd better." 

" You can think it well over at your 
leisure," James pursued. 

" Perhaps," said Eva, hesitating on the 
brink, " I'd better." 

•' You can go and cook another dinner or 
two for Catharine," James added, and sat 
back to await the result of this stroke. 

" Cook ! " cried Miss Eva. " Cook ! " And 
then, adorably : " Let's go ! To-night ! " 

And then : " Oh, the adventure ! " 

And then : " And the real, splendid, roaring 
wickedness ! " 

" Pardon me, my dear," said James, again 

with his noble gesture, " there is no wickedness. 

Everything we shall do will be perfectly pure, 

wise, and sane. My plan is for your happiness 

,and for the satisfaction of my sense of duty." 

For a long while Eva ate strawberries and 
cream silently. Then : " And my mother ? " 

James drummed on his knee. 

" Drop her a note, assuring her as to your 
safety, but not declaring your whereabouts. 
Tell her you will write regularly." 

" She will find me by the post-mark," said 
Eva, big-eyed. 

" The letters will be dated forward, 
enclosed to me at Gracechurch Street, and 
posted in London," replied James, capably. 

Eva ate on. Then : — 

" I suppose I must tell a likely story ? " 

" Certainly," said James, " and one that 
will not hurt a mother's heart too much. Say 
that, deciding to get rather better-paid 
employment, you have obtained a post for 
yourself, and are very comfortable and 
happy. Say something like that." 

" Very well," replied Miss Eva. 

Here she gurgled so that James was very 
pleased to have the shelter of the screen. 

" She will be awfully angry ! " said Eva. 

" I am afraid so," James replied, after 
serious thought ; " but everything I have 
done, I have done for the best. That is my 
excuse to society, if I need excuse. I should 
not, anyway, be the first man to suffer for 
his principles." 

Miss Eva waved this aside, and asked : — 

" Did you say a car ? " 

" Yes," said James. 

" Did you say clothes immediately ? " 

" Immediately." 

" And a house of my own to run as I like, 
with enough servants ? " 

" I did." 

" And a banking account ? " 

" Certainly." 

" And — honourable ? Pure scheme ? 
Comme il jaut ? " 

" I swear it ! " cried James, stung to the 
marrow by this. 

Miss Eva first gazed at him with the pity 
of the sane for the lunatic ; then gurgled 
immoderately ; then cried : — 

" What an excruciating piece of sin ! " 

" No ! no ! no ! no ! " said James, 
smashing his tea-cup. " My poor, suspicious 
child ! My blind, warped girl ! Will you 
not realize that everybody in the world is 
good ? Only nobody knows it — except 

Eva was not listening to James. Smiles 
played over her face. 

" I may as well write to mother now," she 

" Quite righQ/iaifial|BWTFis. " I must get 
you plaii|ilHt>te-paperOF MICHIGAN 



1 1 was begged (mm the all rati ive waitress 
who had .served tea, 

Eva became very grave. 

During the writing of that letter James 
looked away. Ho had seen the young girl's 
delicate gravity, marked her sudden silence, 
and he respected both. He thought: 4i The 
letter to the mother — a difficult affair. She 
feels the parting. The feeling does her credit. 
But 1 am acting for the best." 

Eva licked up her envelope, very big-eyed , 
and sighed, 

" Finished ? " said James, sympathetically. 

" Finished," she replied, and sighed again, 
and suddenly broke into a gurgle, 

" A little hysterical," James thought to 
himself, u Very natural." 

She continued to gurgle at frequent 
intervals until they went out, and posted the 
letter in Piccadilly, 

One need not 
follow all their 
doings in Glasgow. 
Familiar with the 
routine, James ac- 
complished house- 
hunting and fur- 
nishing business 
with accustomed 
ease. The little 
Glasgow nest was 
inimitably perfect ; 
the new car, a 
small Straker- 
SquirCj cost £300, 
and was lined with 
dull blue leather — 
a delicious bit of 
Eva's vanity !— to 
suit her fair com- 

James, having 
wired to Catharine j 
stayed two days. 

The evening of 
his return to 
Hampstead was 
one of the most 

beautiful in a beautiful July. He walked 
serenely up the well-known road, and gave 
a glance as he passed, partly from habit, 
partly from interest, at Mrs. Hunter's 
windows. They blazoned nothing of the 
recent bereavement in that house, but 
remained reserved, reticent, decently shrouded 
in their summer Nottingham lace. James , 
appearing immaculately fresh and happy for 
a well-nourished man on a hot afternoon, 
passed on to his own garden-gate, 

There stood Catharine — having been 
apprised in a second loving and thoughlki 
telegram of his coming — smiling, trim, and 
handsome as ever, but with a certain under 
current in her benign mood foreign to htr 
usually open manner. Even as he kissed h« 
James became conscious of this element, and 
even as she took his arm and turned with him 
up the garden-path, he had guessed the reason. 
He asked no question, 

however f but evinced a t 

desire to proceed at once 
to his dressing - room. 
Truth to tell, he would 
have found a few moments 
— in which to arrange his 
reception of her news — 
distinctly grateful. He was 
allowed without protest to 


carry his own bag upstairs, even to shut the 
door upon himself, while Catharine disap- 
peared, house -wifely, to the back regions ; 
but no sooner had he sat down upon the 
camp-bed T gripped its side firmly, and stared 
out into the future of infinite chaos, than he 
was obliged to answer a knock, 

It was Catharine, house- wifely, with his 
can of hot water. 

She was a little flushed by the heat, a 



exertions ; but a finer woman and a better wife 
it would have been hard to find throughout 
the empire. As he took the hot-water can 
from her attentive hands, James knew this, 
and paid tribute to it by his sincere thanks, 
and a pleasant compliment on her appearance. 

Catharine smiled — somewhat vague, some- 
what harassed, looking abstracted. Then she 
closed the door firmly, and sat down in 
James's basket-chair. This is the way she 
broke her news. 

" The reason for my bringing your hot 
water myself, dear, is that Janet " — the 
housemaid — " is helping me to cook dinner." 

44 Indeed ? " said James. " Ah ! Well, 
Catharine, dear, I am very much obliged." 

He did not ask why the housemaid should 
cook dinner, but addressed himself to his 
toilet. After a pause Catharine coughed. 
James did not pursue the subject. 

"It's very awkward," said Catharine 
therefore ; " I thought that I was so com- 
fortably suited, too, with that Eva Hunter." 

James was obliged now to say, falsely : — 

44 What's the matter with Miss Eva, love ? " 

A silence met this, so he turned, with an 
effort, to meet Catharine's modest glance of 
unutterable horror. 

44 My dear," replied she, " don't speak of it. 
I would rather not." 

44 Dear me ! " said James, relieved. " If 
anything terrible has happened — if you would 
rather not speak of it — why, of course, my 
dear, as you please." 

He now washed his face, using soap, and 
emerging pink and shining. He hummed a 

44 If you would listen, my dear," said 
Catharine, with justifiable reproach, 44 1 would 
give you the whole story." 

44 My love," James insisted, 4< if you would 
rather not " 

44 It is decidedly better for you to know," 
said Catharine, gently but resolutely, " and I 
am rather surprised by your lack of interest, 
as you were always kind to Eva Hunter. 
She has disappeared." 

44 Disappeared ! " said James. 

44 Disappeared ! " whispered Catharine. 

44 Good heavens ! " said James, very 

It was a very natural outburst of feeling. 
Catharine looked at him with approval, and 
settled to her recital. 

44 It was on the very afternoon you went 
to Scotland. She had done her work here in 
the morning — a little reluctantly, it is true, 
but she did not take kindly to it from the 
first. We had lunch together, when she 

talked quite pleasantly, and then she went 
home. A letter had come for her by the 
midday post, Mrs. Hunter says, with a type- 
written address and a City post-mark. Eva 
took the letter upstairs to read, without a 
word of explanation to her mother, and was 
seen no more." 

44 Good heavens ! " cried James, repeating 
his success. 

44 I sent round for her to cook dinner, 
as she did not appear," Catharine continued, 
44 and Mrs. Hunter herself came back with 
Janet to ask my advice. She said that when 
Eva did not come down for tea she went to 
the girl's room and could not find her. She 
then searched, and found that Eva had put 
on her best coat and skirt — the grey one, you 
know, which they turned last spring — and her 
new hat. She did not come back to cook my 
dinner here — about which I did not mind, as 
I had, by that time, received your wire 
saying you would not be home to eat it, and 
anything does for me — neither did she go 
home for supper. Poor Mrs. Hunter was 
nearly frantic." 

" Good heavens ! " replied James. " Good 
heavens ! " 

44 Nearly .frantic," Catharine continued, 
44 when by the last post came a letter from 
Eva, posted in Piccadilly, and giving no 
address. The poor thing — I mean, of course, 
the mother — brought the letter for me to 
read. I shall never forget the contents." 

41 And they were ? " James asked. 

44 4 Dear Mother, ' " said Catharine, in a 
deep, moved voice, " 4 Do not fret because I 
am going away, and do not try to find me. I 
am perfectly well and happy. I will write to 
you frequently^, and I will come to see you 
some day — soon, if possible, but for the 
present I am going away with the man I love, 
and who loves me.' " 

James sat down upon his camp-bed and 
gripped its side. 

44 Catharine," he said, as deeply moved as 
she, i4 did the young girl say that ? " 

44 She did ! " sighed Catharine. 

44 Heavens ! " said James. 

44 What have you to say about it ? " she 
inquired, anxiously. 

44 Nothing at all," replied James. 

44 But what do you think of it all ? " asked 

44 Nothing at all, my love," said James. 

Catharine rose, part indulgent, part impa- 
tient, and said : — 

44 My old James, you are too charitable for 
this wicked world. You think no evil, even 
when evy^^^^^^ff^y^fjiut I have 




no hesitation in saying, my clear , that I fear 
Eva Hunter has gone to the bad." 

'* No, no I " urged James, 

" Entirely to the bad/' Catharine repeated, 
firmly , going to the door. 

" But where is the bad ? " said James, 
11 How can the young girl go to it ? Where is 
it? How often do I reiterate that all the 
world is g ? " 

14 I must see to dinner T* 1 cried Xttharine, 
shutting the door with some noise. 

James sat upon his bed, 
gripping its side. He said, 
mesmerized into repetition 
by the dreadfulness. M * 1 
am going away with the 
man I love, and who loves 
me J ' I am going awav 
with the man I love, and 
who loves me,' * 1 am 
g M» 

He made one bound to 
the mirror, and gazed 
therein. He may certainly 
be excused for it. Heart- 
less joke as this young girl 
had made of the letter to 
her mother, the words she 
had written were distinctly 
— not pleasing, but — tick- 
ling io the palate. They 
wire words j certainly, that 
made a man smile, 

James smiled. <l Ador- 
able little Rogue!" he 
tried, with deep gratifica- 
tion. And quite suddenly 
a vibrant memory of Eva's 
gurgle came to him, and 
while he stood looking thu* 
into his mirror, he opened 
his mouth and gurgled, 
too, parrot -like — a long, hearty, joyous 
gurgle like Eva's. 

A i-hiirp knoek at his door heralded 
Catharine's hasty entry. 

" My dear/' she exclaimed, " I heard a 
strange noise I I came to say dinner is served, 
but— I heard a strange noise ! w 

fames explained himself as best he 

1 1 was only gargling, my dear," he said, 

Ms your throat sore?" said Catharine. 
* Is it only dust-throat, or do you think it 

relaxed ? When did you first find " 

fl Don't worry yourself. Catharine, dear; 1 
he said, hurriedly. " I am quite all 

* ( Wait ! " said Catharine. " I have a 
splendid gargle- I will fetch it." 

She fetched it, she measured it out, she 
stood by James while he gargled, and whtn 
he would have stopped, she cried : — 
** Again, my old James, again ! " 
So he gargled for ten minutes, while 
Catharine exhorted him ; and it is reasonable 
to suppose that he never gurgled — parrot-like 
after an alluring Ro^ue — in his dressing-room 


Oil! JAMES! 



By this time we have arrived at a very 
busy period in James's life, The establish- 
ment of six new branches of business alone 
would have entailed heavy initiatory work, 
but when to this was allied as much personal 
superintendence as could be snatched for five 
new homes in well-separated districts, we 
may imagine that his self-appointed task 
was no light one. Catharine he could rely 
upon to ruh their mutual affairs with a 
competence lately lamented, but now, in the 
face of great financial liabilities, ah ! how 
esteemed ! But the five Rogues would not 
easily forgive a lapse in the frequent corre- 
spondence, tolerate a long absence, or accept 
any excuse for lack of minute attention. 
They were despots- 
It followed j then, 
that James must 
spend most of his 
week - ends away 
from Hampstead. 
When not boating 
on the Oxford river 
with Gwen T he must 
be yachting round 
the west coast with 
Maggie Fields, or 
educating Dorothy 
Dormer in Manches- 
ter. And when not 
engaged in this 
higher task, Nora 
wished for motoring 
week-ends about the 
country, or Eva 
drove him over 
Scottish hilh and 
dales in her beauti- 
ful little blue-lined 

He passed, as we 
can well understand, 
a most engaging 

It is possible that 
having carried his 
enterprise thus far, 
he would have rested 
content — - so far as 
a conscientious man 
with si\ houses in 
divers parts of the 
kingdom can rest — 
had it not been for 
an occurrence of a 
serious nature in 
late August. 

It was on a Monday morning, James had 
just returned from a cruise with Maggie down 
the Cornish coast. There awaited him, when 
he sat down in his shirt-sleeves at his desk, 
a great deal of business, and a little pile of 
private letters addressed in now familiar 
feminine handwriting. He attended, as was 
now his wont, to this private correspondence 
first, then to business. The first business 
letter that came to hand staggered him. 

It contained — with a letter of pleasure 
from the manager — statistics of an appalling 
nature from the Bombay branch. The 
business was doing more than paying ; it 
was coining money ; more, it was becoming 
a veritable gold-mine. The balance-sheet 
heaped treasure upon James's head. It was 

**sQ ME tiAke.l 


Original f 

ki> imi. 



the work of notable accountants, and no 
mistake could have been made. It crushed 
him. He was still an uproariously rich man. 

He sat there, dejected. He might, perhaps, 
have closed the Bombay branch, but for the 
conviction that his duty lay otherwise. He 
must continue to expand, to grow, to uphold 
commerce and to foster enterprise. He 
might, indeed — and this occurred to him 
briefly — have gone out into the streets, and 
picking out some shabby, worthy fellow, have 
made the Bombay business over to him as a 
joyful eift ; perhaps the Holborn Restaurant 
in one lunch hour might have yielded such a 

But this would be rank pauperization. 

He knew one solution perfectly well 
beneath the feeble suggestions teeming in his 
mind, but at first — having his hands already 
so full — he shrank from looking at it. An 
hour saw him more courageous — the end of 
two hours found him looking up the sailings 
to India — lunch-time found him comforting 
himself with the thought: " Two weeks to 
go, and two to return, and a week there. 
Six weeks at the outside — what is it ? " He 
resolved to go. 

He told Catharine that evening, while she 
sat in the basket-chair in his dressing-room. 

" Catharine, my love, I find that business 
calls me to Bombay." 

" Well, James," said the sensible woman, 
44 if business calls, you know that I would not 
hold you back. Money is money, goodness 
knows ! " And she sighed. " I manage on 
very little," she added, maddeningly, " but 
still, money is money ! " 

Maddening as this was, it did not madden 
James. He was, by now, accustomed to the 
attitude that prevailed in his Hampstead 
home. Smiling at her a little sadly, he 
allowed the thing to pass. 

A qualm took him — she was very deserving. 

" Catharine," he said, haltingly, " you have 
travelled very little. You are not exigent in 
the matter of holidays. Would you not like 
to come, too ? " 

Catharine considered. 

" Do come ! " urged James , reluctantly. 

" No," said Catharine, firmly, " the expense 
is not justified." 

His heart lightened once more. 

" I should hurry back," he observed. 

" Of course you would, dear," replied 
Catharine. " Hotel expenses are enormous — 
more so there, probably, than here, and why 
should you incur them unnecessarily when 
you have a comfortable home ? Goodness 
knows, you have to spend enough with these 

Bristol week-ends, and these Birmingham 
week-ends, and these Oxford week-ends, and 
these Manchester week-ends, and these Glasgow 
week-ends. M 

14 The business justifies the trouble, my 
dear," said James. 

After dinner, Catharine had a little news 
for James, and it was : — 

" Mrs. Hunter says she really cannot stand 
it much longer, and she will set a detective 
after that girl if she doesn't soon disclose he* 

11 Indeed I " said James. 

41 I/' said Catharine, " should have done it 
from the first." 

" Pooh ! M replied James, uneasily. " What 
do you know about detectives, my 

" There are many things," said Catharine, 
" that I acknowledge I do not know. But if 
1 had a mind to know them, James, I should. 
In fact, I should do anything in the world 
that I had a mind to do." 

Now, looking at Catharine, James suddenly 
perceived that she would, so much astuteness 
and resolve were there peeping out from 
behind this excellent wife's calm exterior. 

James realized here that his was the thorny 

He thought carefully nearly the whole night 
while Catharine slept. There were more 
difficulties than Catharine and Mrs. Hunter's 
detective in the way of the quest to India. 
This presented itself : — 

That when a man has taken upon himself 
the protection of five Rogues — or put it, if 
you like, that when a person with avuncular 
leanings has adopted five nieces — he cannot 
lightly leave them to their own devices, or to 
the dangers with which their beauty besets 
them (observe that, given special circum- 
stances, even James must harbour Suspicion) 
while he spends a few weeks on the ocean. 

What shall this man, this avuncular person, 

Morning brought solution, blessed with a 
treble balm ; the said solution being creative 
of employment for deserving men, as well as 
promising protection to five young women, 
and repealing a former decree which had ever 
since smitten his conscience. 

A little paler from lack of sleep, but restored 
by his cold bath and breakfast, James kissed 
his wife good-bye at their garden-gate. 

At the office he rang up an Employment 
Bureau, and requested that a few young men 
— unhampered by any ties, and fitted to 
undertake delicate and responsible work — 

sh *Mif ffi HfflBfir"" ; next he 



sent out a boy with advertisements for six 
daily papers, reading thus : — 

Remunerative, light, but responsible work 
offered in Oxford. Would suit don, or some 
other intellectual person, wishing substantially to 
increase his income. Apply . 

Next he sent for Morton. 

" Morton," he said, " where is Baker ? " 

" I could lay my hand on him now," 
replied the manager. 

" I thought that very possible," said James. 
" I have an offer to make him in connection 
with the Manchester branch ; a good offer, 
meaning an advance on his old salary. Where 
is he ? " 

The manager mentioned a rival firm of 
despicable standing compared with James 
Bright. Baker, he said, was now a ledger- 

" Let him call on me this afternoon," said 
James, " and hand in his notice this morning." 

That afternoon Mr. Baker was the first 
applicant to arrive. He stood by James's 
desk like a little fawn hound, and smiled and 
wriggled. James shook hands with him, and 
allowed him a chair. 

" Baker," he said, slowly, " I thought a 
good deal afterwards about your going, and 
I can now offer you a job in Manchester." 

Mr. Baker said that he had heard Bright's 
Manchester branch was doing like a miracle, 
and that he was sure he would be very 
delighted to do anything he could for Mr. 
Bright, the business being one that was 
known throughout the commercial world. 

" The job is not in connection with the 
business/' replied James, a little anxiously. 

" Indeed, sir," said Mr. Baker. 

" I shall be obliged to enforce utter secrecy 
upon you," said James, " and the salary, for 
very light but responsible work, is three 
hundred and fifty a year." 

Closing with avidity, Mr. Baker heard 
James continue : — 

" The matter is simply this. 1 have to go 
to Bombay, and shall be absent about six 
weeks. I want, during my absence, to be 
assured of the safety of a young woman 
called Dorothy Dormer, whose address I shall 
give you. You will not claim acquaintance 
with, or speak to her at all, but, staying at an 
hotel in the vicinity, will watch over her, and 
report to me by letter and cable at various 
ports of call. You can also cable me at 
Bombay. Should you find her/' James con- 
sidered profoundly, " in any difficulty, the 
recipient, say, of unwelcome attentions, you 
will, for instance, follow the payer of those 
attentions, and say to him ' Hands off ! ' 

Vol. xlvii.-2a 

You can tell him you are a lawyer, acting 
under the instructions of Miss Dormer's uncle 
during his temporary absence. You will, in 
short, watch, and let me know how matters 

Mr. Baker's countenance was, by now, 
singularly devoid of all expression. 

" I understand, sir," he replied. 

" I shall consider you engaged," said 
James, " and we can talk over details in a 
day or two. When that particular situation 
exists no longer, I shall, of course, find you 
another with one of my branches. Good day." 

Mr. Baker rose, now looking like a small 
fawn sphinx. He did not speak to Mr. 
Morton, who waylaid him in the outer office, 
but tearing himself away from that friend's 
hands, ran out, bent with laughter. 

James sat, saying to himself, with pursed 
lips : "It is a very good idea of mine — a 
splendid idea ! Employs labour, protects 
girls, reinstates that poor fellow. Good ! 
Good ! To-morrow I'll have this business 

To-morrow there came to him many 
applicants, of whom he chose three, very 
carefully studying the physiognomy of each, 
and a letter from an Oxford don. Each of 
the successful applicants went out shaken, or 
solemn — according to the way mirth took 
him — with laughter, and wh^n the last one 
had gone, James replied to the Oxford don. 

Regretting that business prevented his 
running down to Oxford, James asked the 
applicant to lunch at the Criterion on the 
following day, to talk it over. 

The don was young, for his attainments, 
and distinctly attractive. 

They lunched in the East Room. 

The don made matters quite easy. It went 
like this : — 

" The labour," James explained, " is light, 
merely involving the care of a young woman 
during a short necessitated absence of mine." 

" The work," said the don, quietly regard- 
ing Piccadilly Circus, " appears to be quite 

" Ijon't think you will find it arduous at 
all," replied James. " May I ask where your 
rooms are ? " 

Receiving the address, he continued : — 

" I should want you to be, if possible, in 
the Banbury Road, close to her house." He 
proceeded to explain the plan of mails and 

" You would not be expected," he said, 
later, " to make her acquaintance. In fact, 
that is one of . my conditions. You are 
merely to wd^cFfflW'lir fer, protect her as well 




as is in your power, and report faithfully to 
me. The remuneration for the six weeks 
would be, let us say, a hundred and fifty 

" Charming," said the don. " You will 
tell me the lady's name ? " 

" Miss Gwen Raymond," James replied. 

" My dear sir," said the don, grasping 
his hand, " don't have the slightest qualm. 
Miss Raymond is my care." 

" I can give you all details before I sail," 
said James. 

To himself he was murmuring : " How 
charming it is to entrust a ticklish matter like 
this to a gentleman ! No sign of ridicule, ro 
hidden smile — the essence of tact, the soul of 

Half the afternoon was pleasantly whiled 
away in the East Room before James returned 
to Gracechurch Street, and his guest to 

Our friend was able now to start upon his 
journey with comparatively little misgiving. 
Having adjusted his Metropolitan business 
temporarily, having settled every condition 
of their vigil with the five young men who 
were to protect his five houses, having rushed 
for one day each to the five Rogues, having 
written them a final admonitory letter apiece, 
having promised them good things according 
to their deserts on his return, he was free to 
go upon his quest. And having kissed 
Catharine — whom he could leave without a 
protector with no fear — he went, his heart 
fixed, his soul bright, his eye undimmed by 
its six-fold anxieties, in his right hand the 
shield of his great axicm, " Everybody in the 
world is good, only nobody knows it — except me" 

At Port Said James received five cables, from 
Baker, the Oxford don, and the Birmingham, 
Bristol, and Glasgow men, to the effect " All 
well." Brief cablegrams were received also 
at Aden, and longer messages came for him 
to Bombay, awaiting his arrival at his hotel. 
All told him not to worry for an instant. 

James fancied himself in white duck with 
a pith helmet, under which his pink face 
rapidly bronzed. It did not occur to him to 
say, " I wish Catharine could sec me ! " but 
it did occur to him to think : — 

" I'd like Gwen, Maggie, Nora, Dorothy, 
Eva to see me in this outfit ! " 

He fancied Bombay, too ; he thought her 
great — the glowing and beautiful city. In 
one night of her tropic splendour he grew a 
great imagination. It came to him in bed as 
he drowsed ; it increased when a native 

servant brought his bath ; it grew fervid and 
more fervid while he shaved, till : — 

" My Indian house," said James, musing, 
as he tested the edge of a razor, " shall be 
mystical, flamboyant, ardent, tropical, 
climatic. In a town like this it should not be 
hard to find one who would make it so." 

In the early cool of the autumn morning 
he went out to his place of business. He 
found it looming solid, imposing, glaring 
white under the sun. He talked for a long 
time with his manager. He wandered through 
department after department, for besides 
Bright's old double-lined bottoms, there were 
Bright's improvers and Bright's extenders 
for steam or roast, Bright's new Dutch ovens, 
Bright's cooler, Bright's refrigerator, Bright's 
" pan that can't burn," and many other 
inventions of notoriety. It was in the 
extender room that Fate assisted him, by 
rolling a great wave towards him on which he 
rode high towards Her who should make for 
him a tropic and climatic home. 

She wore a white dress, a black waist-belt, 
and bow at her throat; black shoes, shady 
black hat, and she carried a black sunshade. 
One perceived thus that she was in mourning. 
Looking more closely, one perceived, too, 
that she had the expression rather of a widow 
than of a maiden. Let us suppose her, then, 
from the beginning, that which she was, a 
widow, and an entrancing one, of not more 
than thirty-five. 

" I wanted a large extender," she was 
saying, " but a rupee is a great deal of money 
for it. I do not think it worth a rupee." 

Stepping forward, James pulled off his 
pith helmet. 

" Madam, we shall be pleased to let you 
have that extender at half price." 

The lady looked up, and took James in. 

" I am James Bright," he explained. c< I 
have come to look at my branch here." 

" Oh ! " said the lady. " Thank you. I 
could not afford a rupee for an extender." 

James turned to his manager, who stood 
by, disapproving. 

" Have the extender sent to this lady's 
address at once." 

The manager took the address, the lady 
left the shop, and James fell into a dream. 

From this he was roused by the manager, 
who asked, " What will you see next, Mr. 
Bright ? " 

" She is a very charming woman," said 
James, " and, I judge, a widow. What was 
the address ? " 

The manager read it, beginning with " Mrs. 





" A pretty name ! " said James, losing the 
rest of the information while he tried it in 
various intonations. 
The manager waited. 

" I should like all the information you can 
gather about the lady," said James, " by 
this evening." 

Having said this with his peculiar simplicity 
he went away, to return in the evening just 
before closing time. 

The manager had a small list of details for 
him. Mrs. Delaine was the widow of a 
ship's engineer. No one, so far as he could 
say, ever saw the engineer. The lady was 
not received in good English society. She 
had no visible means of subsistence, but 
continued to subsist. 

The manager closed his note-book. 

" Thank you very much," said James, 
transferring the remarks in shorthand to his 
own note-book. " I dare say you are wondering 
as to the reasons of my curiosity, but " 

" No, no, Mr. Bright ! " said the manager, 
regarding James tolerantly, and waving away 
his confidences. 

It was only eight o'clock when James 
reached Mrs. Delaine's small, square, bald, 
burnt white house. 

He sent in his card, and was admitted, 
through a hall, to a small sitting-room, both 
hall and sitting-room being furnished in the 
style of a very unadorned dak bungalow. 
James had never seen a dak bungalow, so he 
had no word for the sparseness that he found. 
It may be that he hardly noticed it, for 
glowing on a long cane lounge, near a punkah, 
was the widow. 

" Will you ever forgive this intrusion ? " 
said James, humbly, standing near the door. 

Her reply came with more than a degree of 

" I certainly think you must make a very 
good explanation, Mr. Bright." 

Now, if this had been his first experience 
on such an errand the widow's bearing, her 
languid, outraged voice, her cold eyes, would 
have caused James to withdraw instantly, 
with the humblest of apologies. But it was 

not his 
second ; 

first errand 
but the sixth. 

neither was it the 
He felt he knew, by 

now, the fair creatures to whom he came in 
so benevolent a guise. The previous five had 
all been at first coy, then cold, warming 
quickly to perfect trust, friendship, and, he 
pleasantly feared, in some cases to affection. 
His perfect directness of sight and thought 
serving him as well as the most utter sophis- 
tication, he was able to account to himself 
for the widow managing the outraged curtain- 

raiser more skilfully than the five Rogues by 
the fact that she was, at the lowest computa- 
tion, thirty-three, and possibly thirty-five. 

" May I sit down ? " he asked. 

The widow waved him to a chair, staring 
insolently. Her insolence was no deterrent ; 
he detected in her .the goodness that infects 
the world, and saw that it was flanked by the 
proud spirit which becomes a lonely and 
beautiful woman. 

"lama very simple business man," he 

" Well," said Mrs. Delaine, a trifle more 
kindly, " I do not know that that is to your 
detriment, so far as I am concerned." 

James saw no double entendre in this. 
Perhaps, indeed, there was none. He went 
on : — 

" And as such I approach you. I always 
like to come straight to my point, and to have 
the belief of my hearers. I ask you therefore 
to believe that, although my appearance 
probably belies it, I am an idealist." 

Now, Mrs. Delaine, it is reasonable to 
suppose, knew her job, and she said : — 

" Your appearance most certainly belies it." 

Hiding a smile called up by the gratifica- 
tion that very innocent men feel when a 
woman thinks them very guilty, James took 
up his tale. 

"lama very rich man," he said, " and my 
expenses are not commensurate with my 
income. I have, I assure you, despite the 
fact that my appearance may belie it, an 
almost bigoted sense of duty. It has seemed 
to me that men tend more and more to throw 
off the responsibilities of the home, and to 
walk unshackled through life. That is not 
my way. When I opened this branch I 
determined that it should support a home. 
I said, * I will accept no increase of income 
unless it brings with it a distinct benefit to 
somebody else.' " 

" Indeed ? " said the widow. 

" A home," James pursued, " involves 
many benefits to many people. There is, 
first and foremost, the woman who is mistress 
of it. She is gratified. In the ministry to 
all her whims and caprices it follows that 
trade is gratified. Labour is provided for a 
certain number of servants, and rates and 
taxes assist in the upkeep of the country in 
which the home is established. You follow 
me, my dear madam ? " 

" I am not trying to, at present," said the 
widow. " I think we have not yet arrived at 
the point." 

He turned on her a glance ripe in sorrow, so 

ripe "-^l?ftaTy%* to^ 

t6 4 


u Regarding the mis'ress of the house," he 
pursued, quiet ly f " the man responsible must 
choose carefully. For preference he chooses 
a beautiful woman whose Hr rums tames are 
inadequate to her wants- Thus he has the 
immense pleasure of giving her ail that she 
wants ; of employing on, her behalf, labour ; 
of helping, by her delicious extravagance, 
commerce. 1 * He bent towards her. M When 
I saw you in my shop this morning, cogitat- 
ing over the price of an extender, I said ; 
( She is the woman.' " 

The widow lay on her cane lounge and smiled* 

Or possibly I may not- Vou can stay to 


James stayed. 

We have little to do with that dinner. The 
food was bad, but the wine rarely gocxl 
James came away from the square, burnt 
small house the possessor of a sixth Rogue, 
more dangerously roguish than all the others 
put together. 

It need take but a short while for a moneyed 
man to secure a climatic home* It was found. 
furnished ? and inhabited within a week. 
During that week what talks they had ! 
What drives together in the cool of the 

mornings ! He thought of nothing but his 

new, adorable friend. 

Hut on the sixth day came his mail ; 
tiers from Catharine and from the five 

protectors of youth and beauty. They 

brought the wandering mind back. All was 

well, James learned. On the eighth day he 

would sail for home* 
He told Mrs. Delaine on the seventh of his 

" Do you really/ 1 she inquired of James ? 
4S want only to help commerce, to supply 
Labour j and to make a poor woman happy ? " 

" On my soul ! " said James, hoarsely, 
*' On my honour ! " 

" Extraordinary man ! " mused the widow. 

"It is always considered extraordinary/' 
said James, with a helpless air, '* to do the 
obvious things." 

The widow meditated, then she laughed ; 
then she gave James a long, slow look, and 
she thought that she saw a very simple 
business man indeed. 

" I may accept/' she said, " after dinner. 


imminent departure She gazed at him, 
enthralled by his unusualness. 

11 You are content to go ? " she said, in a 
deep voice. 

u Not content/' James sighed., " but " 

He indicated Duty. 

" Pooh ! " cried Mrs, Delaine* 

u Not * pooh * ! *' said James, after a pause* 
(t I must go. 1 * 

11 ' Must ' ! " mused Mrs Delaine. 

" I shall go/* said James, with dignity. 

They were sitting on h?r veranda on a 
hot j velvet evening. The smells and sounds 
of the t(Q^gkiftb1WBhem, 




" You are content to go — like this ? " she 

" No/' said James again, " but " For 

a second time he indicated Duty. 

" You will come back ? " she asked. 

" When possible/* said James. 

The lady went from the comparative 
publicity of her veranda into the beautiful 
new drawing-room, and worked up a scene. 

" You are a monster ! " she cried, between 
sobs. " Heartless, soulless ! Cruel as a tiger ! " 

James heard these expressions with un- 
bounded dismay, but at his first attempt at 
denial : — 

" I would rather," she cried, " be at the 
mercy of a tiger in the jungle ! " 

And she threw herself upon a new divan, 
and wept. 

One cannot suppose that any mild man will 
hear himself likened to a tiger without 
pleasure. But when he had recovered from 
the wave of momentary gratification that 
swamped him, James said, plaintively : — 

" I have done what I could. You have an 
income' sufficient to keep you in luxury, a 
Rallt cart and two of the best ponies I could 
buy, many servants, new furniture, an order 
on two Paris houses. If there is anything 
you wish further " 

" Wish further ! " she repeated, strangling 
with sobs. 

" I will do it ! " cried James. 

"Do it ! " she repeated, and tore a hand- 
kerchief to shreds. 

James sat upon the divan, and, the occasion 
warranting a desperate course, he put an 
arm about the widow. She laid her head 
upon his shoulder — where no head but 
Catharine's had ever lain — and ceased to 

" You care ? " she murmured. 

James could not answer. 

" You love me?" said she, all softness. 

" No ! No ! " cried James, bounding up 
from the divan. 

The widow menaced him again with tears 
and reproaches. 

14 Whpt could I suppose/' she said, " from 
all this" — she swept her hand around — " but 
that yeu wished to marry me, and that even 
before our union you wanted to surround me 
with all the luxury that I should enjoy, by 
right, after ? " 

She -pleated her narrow satin skirt and 
trembled. Behold James in a quandary that 
taxed, and went beyond, his utmost powers. 

She loved him. 

She supposed him to be unmarried. 

{To be 

He wished that he had spoken of Catharine 
to her, before this. Now it was too late. He 
could not wound a loving woman's sensitive 
pride by telling her where she had misplaced 
her affections. He blamed himself bitterly, 
and while he blamed himself, she sought his 
hand and pressed it between hers. 

It was patent to him that she misunder- 
stood their arrangement. She had, in short, 
expected a declaration of love, which should 
be followed by a speedy union. Had she not, 
coming to confess her secret, said so ? 

After many painful pauses, he said : — 

" I have to return to England to-morrow. 
It is inevitable. I much regret it. Your 
income will be perfectly secure as long as you 
remain" — he saved her feelings finely — "as 
long as you do not marry elsewhere. I hope 
to come back some day." 

The widow rose and looked at him, pleading, 

" Will you not kiss me this last night ? " 
she said. " Do you not want to ? " 

James thought firmly and faithfully of 
Catharine, and replied, " I must not kiss you. 
But thank you very much for offer- 
ing it." 

Now, at this, she very properly flew into 
a real rage. She boxed James's ears, she 
treated him to a hurricane of contempt ; her 
wrath poured on him from seemingly inex- 
haustible vials. Finally she sank, sobbing, 
on the divan. 

James escaped to the door, and from the 
house ; the widow sat up, had a whisky and 
soda, and surveyed the somehow mismanaged 

She had never met so simple, yet so 
difficult a business man. 

All repentance, she saw him away the next 
morning, and insisted, lovingly, that he 
should write. He promised. She let him go 
at that. She said his room would always be 
ready, and always filled with flowers ; it 
would be to her no less than an altar, until he 
came again. What it would be then, she did 
not specify, because the time for the fond 
parting had expired. 

James left his Indian home, climatic and 
tropical as it was, without regret. He found 
it good to be safe upon the sea, dwelling in his 
mind upon Catharine at the end of the 
journey — so upright, so British, and cool as 
a cucumber. He dwelt upon her sanity, her 
good management, her entire reliability, and 
in the present trend of affairs, with relief 
upon her economy. He knew that he could 
rely upon Catharine to be careful. 



XVI. — Landon Ronald. 
XVIL— Prebendary Carlile. 
XVIIL— H. C. Seppintfs-Wrignt. 

In this striking series of articles a number of eminent men and women 

have consented to describe " the most impressive sight " they have ever 

seen. Their stories, as will be realized by the following examples, are 

of the most varied and, in many cases, thrilling kind. 

Sir Charles Santley s Jubilee Benefit. 


(Principal of the Guildhall School of Music). 

Illustrated by John Cameron. 

S I have had the honour of 
accompanying at all the State 
and private concerts given 
during the last twenty years 
at Buckingham Palace, Wind- 
sor Castle, and Balmoral, 
naturally I have had an 
opportunity of witnessing some of the most 
extraordinarily impressive functions seen by 
any commoner. 

I am inclined to think, however, that the 
Charles Santley Benefit Concert, which was 
held at the Royal Albert Hall on Wednesday, 
May ist, 1907, provided, in many respects, 
the most impressive spectacle. Never can the 
old building have been the scene of greater 
enthusiasm. The concert, I would mention, 
was organized by the Earl of Kilmorey, who 
set to w r ork to make it a success almost a year 
before it was held. Stars of the first magni- 
tude responded with enthusiasm, and, 
throughout, no refusal to assist broke the 
unanimous desire on the part of his brother 
and sister artistes to do homage to Charles 
Santley's professional excellence and pay 
tribute to his personal popularity. 

W f hen I mention that the artistes comprised 
Mme. Albani, Mme. Suzanne Adams, Mme. 
Clara Butt, Mme. Ada Crossley, Mr. John 
Coates, Miss Fanny Davies, Mr. Ben Davies, 
Herr Fritz Kreisler, M. Edouard de Reszke, 
Mr. Kennerley Rumford, Mr. W. H. Squire, 
and last, but not least. Charles Santley 

Dog it 

himself, it will easily be understood how 
generously had those of his contemporaries 
responded to Lord Kilmorey's call to assist 
at the Jubilee of the Grand Old Man of Song. 

From roof to floor Charles Santleys 
admirers — headed by the Prince and Princess 
of Wales— had gathered at the Albert Hall 
from all parts of the country to do homage to 
the greatest British singer of our generation— 
to show their admiration of a favourite who 
never disappointed his public, and who, in 
spite of the brilliancy of his Continental rivals, 
had ever held his own — an Englishman born 
and bred, the pride and admiration of his 
native land. 

I had the honour of conducting most of the 
concert on this memorable occasion, and had 
asked my orchestra, as a mark of respect to 
the great singer, to stand up as he came on 
the platform. A minute or two before Charles 
Santley was due to appear a hush spread 
over the great building. Many of his admirers 
present had not heard him sing for years, for 
they came from north, south, east, and west, 
and some of them from out-of-the-way 
country districts where even village concerts 
were unknown. It can thus be easily imagined 
how eagerly they looked forward to seeing 
their old favourite once again. 

One lady admirer who had not seen Santley 
for over thirty years had come, I afterward 
heard, from the extreme north of Russia to 
pay her tribute of admiration. She inquired 









at the box-office as she went in, " He is old, 
your great Santley — can he still sing ? I 
would like to remember his voice as last I 
heard it when it was in the fullness of its 
glorious power." She was politely informed 
that Santley's voice had lost little, if any, of 
its old-time brilliancy. Which was true 
beyond all manner of doubt. 

At last the moment arrived for Charles 
Santley to make his appearance before this 
building packed almost to overflowing. He 
was to sing one of his old favourites — " I rage, 
I melt, I burn." A great impressive silence 
spread over the expectant audience. It was 
as if the soft pedal had suddenly been applied 
to the hitherto eagerly whispering voices of 
every man, woman, and child present. It was 
truly wonderful, and I verily believe that, at 
that moment, the dropping of a silk handker- 
chief could have been heard in the Albert Hall. 

From my conductor's platform I was, 
perhaps, the first in the building to see the 
great singer approach from the Green Room. 
The orchestra at once rose, and as Santley, 
the same stalwart, kindly, breezy figure ijiany 
of us had known — and loved — so long, made 
his appearance, every member in the audience, 
including the Prince and Princess of Wales 
and other Royalty present, also stood up and 
cheered him to the echo — cheered him, indeed, 
so enthusiastically that at last he finally 
appealed by gestures to them to let him sing. 

It was, indeed, a moving moment, a moment 
I dare swear that caused a lump to rise in the 
throats of every person present. Before the 
huge gathering of his admirers from all the 

world over the sturdy singer, whose well-knii 
frame the passing of the years seemed to have 
dealt with in very kindly manner, appeared 
almost a pathetic figure as, with tears in his 
eyes, and hands trembling with emotion at 
the wonderful reception he was receiving, he 
stood there alone, the while, from dome to 
floor, the Albert Hall echoed with cheer aft*r 

For my own part, I soon began to wonder 
whether the cheering would ever cease. At 
last, however, as if overcome by the extra- 
ordinary enthusiasm of his reception, and as 
one who would say, " This is more than I can 
bear — one more cheer and I shall break down." 
Santley raised an appealing hand. The effect 
of that mute appeal was miraculous. In a 
second not a sound was to be heard in the 
building ; the cheering had ceased as if cut 
off by some mechanical contrivance, and all 
was silence once again. 

The orchestra struck up the opening bars 
of HandePs famous aria. With shaking 
hand, the aged singer with the silver hair 
gripped his scrip, and as the first notes of his 
wonderful voice rang out as clear and true 
and as appealing as of old, the warm rays of 
the afternoon spring sun filtered through an 
open door, rested tenderly on the singer's 
head, surrounding it as with a halo, and 
tinging his silver locks with gold. It was a 
fitting coincidence in one of the greatest 
celebrations ever held in the world of music. 
The sun, too, had come to pay its heaven- 
sent tribute to one of the greatest singers of 
our time. 

A Glimpse Into tke Depths of Mount Vesuvius. 


(Founder of the Church Army), 

Illustrated by Dudley Tennant. 

Never in the whole of my life have I seen 
any sight which has made so deep and lasting 
an impression on me as Vesuvius, that dread 
volcano which, on August 23rd, a.d. 79, buried 
the towns of Herculaneum and Pompeii under 
a deluge of mud and ashes. The first and 
only time I saw the mountain was when I 
was stopping in Naples some years ago. 
Leaving this beautiful town one morning, we 
decided to climb Vesuvius, and as the wind 
favoured our ascent from the west, the climb 
did not prove a difficult one, though all the 
time , as I approached the summit, I viewed 
the volcano with a feeling akin to awe, for there 
is surely something particularly awesome and 
dread about a mountain which, awakening 

from a slumber of a thousand years, takes 
upon itself the ghastly duty of burying two of 
the most beautiful cities the world has ever 

Towards the summit the ground became 
sulphurous and to seem as if it were on fire, 
yet it was not so hot as to prevent our cross- 
ing towards the crater, where, as the fumes 
from the gaping vortex below were blown 
away from us, there came before me a sight 
I shall surely never forget. 

Leaning over the edge, I could see rising, 
far down in the abyss, huge masses of molten 
lava as large as St. Paul's Cathedral. These 
were belched out from the depths with 
gurgling sounds. Rising almost to the level 





where we were standing^ they were slowly wreaths from below and occasionally there was 

sucked back again in a manner which reminded a report like that of musketry, which died 

me of some great sulking monster withdrawing away, and left the same murmuring sound, 

to its lair. White vapours rose in fleecy the stifled muttcrings i>f a boiling fluid. 

Vol. xlviL— 21 





From time to time dreadful sounds issued 
from the bowels of the volcano, as if the roar 
of artillery were re-bellowed throughout all 
the hollows of the mountain. At first these 
sounds filled me with an impression of fear, 
but, curiously enough, after this first unavoid- 
able impression had passed away I somehow 
slowly but surely began to feel that there was 
something attractively sublime about this 
ominous cannonade, which seemed like a 
warning of Vesuvius not to pry too deeply 
into his secrets. 

I have since been told that, in viewing this 
sight, I ran some considerable danger of being 
engulfed, or smothered by poisonous fumes ; 
but, be that as it may, the spectacle was one 
of such awful attraction that, even had 1 
known that I was incurring no small risk ; I 
fully believe that that risk would, all -the same, 
have seemed quite a minor consideration. 

To see before one's eyes the thin egg-shell 
coating of the earth broken, and to catch 
a glimpse of what is perpetually going on 
beneath the beauty and accustomed peace 
of the surface, made one intuitively realize, 
maybe for the first time, that mankind is 
indeed living, loving, working, praying, sin- 
ning, worshipping, upon the thin crust of 
a ball of fire, and that all the time as we live, 
love, work, pray, sin, and worship we arc 
each and every one of us but tiny atoms in 
a universe of wonders. 

Yes, that sight was one which made one 
feel more than usually small. Far below 
me those huge masses of molten lava which 
now rose as if some power was impelling them 
to seek the heavens above, and then fell back 
again, as if they had received a warning to 
retire, and retire at once, made me feel that 
man indeed is a poor, weak, frail thing when 

faced with so vast a force as Nature can be 
when in angry mood. 

It can only have been for a few minute^ 
that I viewed this wonderful scene, and yel. 
even now, every detail is imprinted deep on 
my mind. The broad canopy of clouds above 
the gaping vortex, which seemed to rest on 
a column of wreaths and curling heaps of 
lighted vapour, and the amphitheatre of 
rocks around the lower depths were brightly 
illuminated from the boiling lava, while 
a lurid red tinged the distant parts of the 
enclosing walls, and threw their cavernous 
recesses into weird, wonderful shapes, now 
bright as if lit up by a thousand lights, now 
fading away as if one were viewing them 
through a plate of smoked glass. Over this 
scene of restless fires and glowing vapours 
the heavens, by contrast, now appeared un- 
naturally light, now unnaturally black. The 
effect was one I can never forget in the kaleido- 
scopic rapidity of its repeated changes. 

To describe exactly how this extraordinary 
picture impressed me I know not how to do. 
All I do know is that the sight gave me 
a renewed sense of dependence upon Him who 
holds all things, great and small, in the hollow 
of His hand. I gazed at Pompeii fully six 
miles away, and remembered how it nestled 
safely — as all men thought — when the wind 
arose and buried it deep in ashes from the 
volcano. And as the horizon faded into 
nothingness, this thought crossed my mind: 
" What but the good providence of God is 
there to prevent the greatest city in the world, 
the capital of the world's greatest Empire, 
being laid in ruins to-day ? " 

Deeply, wonderfully, " never-to-be-forgot- 
tenly " moved, I and my friends returned to 
Naples, all of us, I hope, better men. 

Bombarded by Airships. 

By H. C. SEPPINGS-WRIGHT, War Correspondent 

of tke " Illustrated London News." 

Illustrated by tbe Autbor. 

The sun struck hot on the desert. Man and 
beast drooped beneath the glow of the re- 
fracted rays. For our camp at Seni beni 
Adam lay in the open, fully exposed to torrid 
Tripolitan heat. There is something fascinat- 
ing, grand, even beautiful, in the sense of full, 
free, wide space. A ragged clump of palms 
in a neglected garden some short distance 
away gave the name " The Garden of Adam." 
Two caravan tracks — " streets/' as the 

Digitized by L>< 

Arabs called them — forked at this spot, one 
leading to the oasis of Zansur, the other to 
the town of Tripoli, by way of Ben Gxshit 
and Ain Zara, passing through our encamp- 
ment, which spread widely over the plain, & 
succession of camps within a camp. From 
the headquarters of the Divisional Com- 
mandante, which stood on a slight ridge or 
crest, the parched, khaki-looking plain undu- 
lated iirj^fWJYl fK4M s ^ ** was st0 PP e ^ 


— 1 



O rigi na l from , 




abruptly by a bar of golden sand on which 
the dark forms of our outlying pickets could 
be seen. 

A rough-and-ready pavilion of four up- 
rights and a tarpaulin threw a square patch 
of shade, beneath which the Commandante 
and myself squatted on the carpet, drinking 
coffee and discussing the next move of the 
Italians. So far the Moslems had had the 
best of the fighting. 

It had been rumoured that the enemy now 
proposed to attack us by means of airships. 

I well recollect that eventful morning. 
Whilst we were talking a silvery sphere 
suddenly soared up into the blue haze over 
the town of Tripoli, having the appearance 
of a rising moon. 

We were not left long in doubt, either as 
to its nature or purpose ; it slowly turned, 
presenting to our eyes the ovoid profile of a 
dirigible. The ship hung for a few minutes, 
motionless, in mid - air, when a second 
soared up. This brought the whole camp 
out, and murmurs of speculation broke the 
stillness. Jgach camp had its contingent of 
watchers, clustering like bees on the ridges, 
the Arab warriors, in solid masses, making 
an excellent target. They were laughing and 
chattering, and seemed more interested than 
alarmed at this novel spectacle. 

With the Turks, who understood the deadly 
character of this new form of attack, it was 
different ; Jhey showed some very natural 
concern, for a bomb dropped amongst the 
horses would certainly have stampeded them 
and the camp would have been thrown into 
confusion. I must admit that I felt far from 
comfortable myself. However, the situation 
had to be faced, so I made up my mind for a 
bad half-hour. 

We were at first treated to a masterly 
display of evolutions. The ships circled in 
graceful curves and spirals until the proper 
elevation was attained ; then they com- 
menced their flight with a sinister delibera- 
tion that seemed almost devilish. They 
steered straight for our camp ; the inter- 
vening ten miles was covered in twice that 
number of minutes, although it seemed to 
us much longer. 

The first bomb fell, striking the ground 
close to Sheik-el-Barouni's tent, which bore 
about a mile due north. We all watched the 
effect with a curious feeling of apprehension. 
It seemed a dastardly deed, but, then, there 
are no ethics in modern warfare. 

The ships now separated, making a dttour, 
as if to encircle us, keeping well outside the 
boundaries of the camp. They were evi- 

dently trying to draw our fire in order to 
find out whether we possessed any artillery. 
Both ships " hove to " at some distance, but 
in a direct line with the Commandante' s tent, 
and proceeded to take up their stations, as 
sportsmen might for a game drive. Slowly 
and steadily they bore down, preceded by 
their shadows, which seemed to strike us 
with an icy chill as the horror of the situation 

We neither moved nor spoke, but stood as 
men turned to stone by the spell of some 
fell enchanter, while the whine of the engines 
struck on our ears with painful distinctness. 

The strain became almost intolerable in 
the intensity of that moment. We almost 
" felt " the weight of the ships pressing on 
our brains, tuned up as we were to the extreme 
limit of expectancy. 

I looked, upwards, and somehow the undu- 
lations of the envelopes gave them a more 
terrible and more realistic appearance, as if 
they were some eerie monsters panting to 
attack us, yet mocking our utter helplessness. 

The critical moment had come. I drew in 
a deep breath, such as a diver might as he 
looks into the deep, sullen waters, many 
yards below, into which he must plunge. 

I glanced at a group of soldiers stand *ng 
near. There was no flinching, but the pinched, 
aged look on their faces told of the severity of 
the trial. 

Suddenly a strange vibration, a curious 
humming sound, broke the silence, faintly at 
first, then louder, as the deadly messenger 
clove the air, followed by a loud explosion 
as the bomb struck the earth, scattering its 
contents like hail. 

The sob of relief that burst from a thousand 
throats is a sound I shall never forget. I had, 
indeed, seen and passed safely through the 
most impressive moment of my life. 

The passing of the ships broke the spell. 
We ran like schoolboys to see the effect. 
During this trying time I held on to my 
camera, and was fortunate enough to get a 
good snapshot of one of the shells at the 
moment it exploded. The excavation made 
by the bomb was only sixty yards away. 

At the infantry camp, two kilometres 
away, they were less fortunate. A bomb 
got home, killing eight men outright and 
dangerously wounding thirty more. 

The rising wind warned the Italian pilots 
that they must hurry if they would garage in 
safety, and we were left in peace, but now 
haunted with the knowledge that a new and 
terrible menace threatened the safety of our 


3&MAYDUE coimr 


T is interest- 
ing, if un- 
profitable, to 
trace out the 
part played 

by Chance, that capri- 
cious intervener in the 
affairs of men, against 
whose irresponsible 
machinations foresight 
avails not, in the grue- 
some Maydue Court 
affair. Pursuing this 
line of investigation, 
one may find plausible 
ground for the assertion that it would not 
have happened but for the state of warfare 
temporarily existing between two of the 
chief London omnibus companies. 

For three awesome days the main arteries 
of traffic were overrun with frightful engines 
of destruction. The big motor-buses 
ranged the thoroughfares in tangled droves, 
44 nursing," jockeying, blanketing, racing, 
colliding, and sometimes even locking them- 
selves together in furious, immovable embrace. 
To cross the road became a fine art requiring 
a cool head, quick eye, and plenty of agility. 
Frank Cartan, fresh home from the Indian 
hills, possessed these qualifications in very 
fair measure, yet even he felt that he took his 
life in his hands every time he crossed the 
Bayswater Road for his morning walk in 
Hyde Park. 

On this particular day, having successfully 
accomplished the first half of the crossing, he 
observed two Juggernaut cars approaching 
at great speed almost abreast of one another, 
and wisely decided to stay where he was and 
wait for them to go by. 

Turning his head to make sure that his back 
was clear, Cartan noticed that his position 
was shared by a lady and a little, golden- 
haired girl who were standing, hand-in-hand, 
a few paces to the right of him. They seemed 
perfectly at home and unaware of any danger ; 
obviously they were quite used to traversing 
London streets. Familiarity, indeed, seemed 
to have bred contempt, for, with nothing more 


Iffustmtecf Jg$ 

than a cursory glance 
before them, they 
stepped gaily on. When 
they had taken a couple 
of paces they caught 
sight of the second bus, 
which, slightly over- 
lapped by its rival, was 
thundering along close 
to the kerbstone. They 
started to run, but the 
little girl slipped on the 
greasy road and, in 
spite of the lady's efforts 
to support her, fell 
sprawling in the very path of the onrushing 

Cartan felt his heart leap. With a loud 
cry of warning he rushed forward and ; 
standing in the track of the second bus, waved 
his stick in the air and shouted at the top of 
his voice. It was a mad, if heroic, thing to do, 
and to the spectators it seemed that the only 
possible result could be the addition of a 
certain death to two probable ones, for, of 
course, Cartan must go down first. Without 
doubt the driver of the bus had been engrossed 
in the race to the neglect of what was before 
him, though in justice it must be allowed 
that his view of the roadway was somewhat 
obscured by the forepart of the leading bus. 
However, the tension under which he laboured 
was a propitious factor in meeting this crisis. 
He had his brakes on as quick as lightning. 
The body of the bus creaked as if it must 
be torn from the framework. The wheels 
skidded, the bus swung round and collided 
heavily with its neighbour. But it slackened 
pace as by a miracle, and after butting Cartan 
gently in the stomach and sending him to the 
ground, came to a standstill with its front 
wheels resting on the kerbstone and its body 
tilted at a perilous angle. Cartan nimbly- 
picked himself up and turned to see how the 
ladies had fared. They were standing on the 
pavement just behind him, a little scared, a 
little pale, but perfectly safe. 

The lady spoke rapidly in an impetuous 
yet enga^mg^if^ MICHIGAN 




u igilizeo oy Vj vJVJ*j£ l\- miV FD <;| ty n c m r h 





" Are you hurt ? Oh, I am so glad ! How 

brave of you ! We never saw that second 

bus. If it had not been for you — but — why, 

it must be — of course, you are Frank Cartan!" 

* c Of course I am, Adela — Mrs. Risdon, I 

should say. Still the same precipitate lady 

as ever ! It is jolly to see you again." 

Cartan's spirit rejoiced, as it always had, in 

the presence of this eager, joyous personality. 

" Are you sure you are not hurt ? " 

11 Not an atom ! But come, we need not 

stand here. Were you making for the Park ? 

May 1 come with you ? " 

In the peaceful Park, as they tramped 

L along the gravel walks under the arching 

trees, Adela Risdon thanked Cartan again 

i and again in a dozen different ways, and her 

| seven-year-old Dorothy echoed all she said 

with variations and additions of her own. 

When that was over, the extraordinary 
curiousness of their meeting was fully dwelt 
upon, and then by natural transition the two 
friends proceeded to exchange the news of 
years — the years which had dragged by since 
Adela, after rejecting Frank Cartan, had 
married Richard Risdon. 

It was always a puzzle to her friends that 
gay, warm-hearted Adela Burstow should 
have chosen Risdon of all men as a focus for 
her glowing affection. 

Risdon's temperament was certainly not 
effusive, but Adela, in the flush of her young 
wifehood, seemed able to melt a stone, and 
for a time her husband's business acquaint- 
ances — he had few of any other kind — were 
agreeably surprised to find him growing 
almost human. Alas ! it was a flash in the 
pan. Slowly, surely, the spark died out of 
him until it became perfectly plain that it had 
not been his own at all but simply the reflec- 
tion of another's love on the ice-walls of his 
heart. Business absorbed him, and other 
interests stood for less and less with him as 
the days of his married life passed by. Adela 
gave him a little girl, Dorothy, and, three 
years afterwards, a baby boy, but he never 
took pains to make them fond of him, and 
when he found them indifferent to him he 
) ignored them. 

Poor Adela, what disillusion was hers ! 
It was not that Risdon disliked her ; it was 
certainly not that he loved any other woman. 
It was simply that there was no love in him. 

Adela was a long time in discovering this, 
and still longer in admitting it ; but when she 
both knew it and faced it, the abounding 
gaiety which had been her life's companion 
was extinguished in a single terrible hour. 

This was Adela's unfortunate state at the 
time when she encountered Frank Cartan in 
such dramatic circumstances. He belonged 
to the numerous band of Adela's rejected 
suitors who, on her marriage to Risdon, 
having lost the only woman they could ever 
love, scattered in search of solace. Cartan, 
being a downright sort of fellow, albeit con- 
vinced, like all the others, that she would 
have done much better with himself, betook 
himself to tea-planting in the far Indian hills, 
and there tried to put away his dream. Now 
for the first time he was home on leave, 
regarding himself as a thoroughly hardened 
bachelor — surely a premature conviction in 
a companionable man of thirty-five. 

After what had happened, he could hardly 
avoid calling at Maydue Court, where, if 
Risdon's gratitude was hardly noticeable, 
vanity made it easy for him to be civil to the 
man over whom he had triumphed years ago. 

Cartan was at first quite shocked by the 
differences between the Adela of to-day and 
the Adela he remembered of a little more than 
seven years ago. As she thawed to his genial 
talk, however, the difference became less 
startling, and he put it down as much to the 
efficacy of his own cure as to any change in 
her. Dorothy loved him at once, and as he 
had a few weeks to spare, he asked permission 
to take her and her mother about the country 
in his car. 

Risdon raised no objection. Though 
naturally an exceedingly jealous man, as 
was subsequently demonstrated in so terrible 
a manner, he had never had the least occasion 
for jealousy so far as Adela was concerned. 

So the excursions proceeded without 
hindrance. The little party of three scoured 
the country round, always returning in time 
for dinner, which Frank Cartan, very 
naturally, would often be invited to take with 
the Risdons. 

The immediate neighbourhood was soon 
exhausted, and it was then resolved to have 
a picnic on the Downs, starting directly after 
early lunch and returning to a late dinner. 
Cartan, as always, pressed Risdon to come 
with them, but, as always, received the excuse 
that Risdon was 4< too busy." The car was 
specially tuned up for the occasion and much 
petrol was put aboard, likewise a tea-hamper 
of considerable dimensions. The roads were 
in fine condition, the car was running beauti- 
fully, and by four o'clock they had covered 
sixty miles straight out from home. Cartan 
left the road and drove the car over the 
short, sheep-bitten turf, threading his wav 

throug »^#ifeOT wcU out on 



the trackless Downs. Then they got out and 
spread their picnic on the grass in the shelter 
of the high bushes. When the day began to 
cool they had a glorious game of hide-and- 
seek — the bushes made splendid cover. 

At last Cartan, looking at his watch, cried, 
" I say, come along; we must be moving, or 
we shall never get home by dinner-time. I 
had no idea it was so late ! " 

As he stood beside the car for a moment to 
make some jocular remark, an owl flew hooting 
almost over their heads. Surprised to see 
the bird of night so early in the evening, he 
glanced up to watch its noiseless, prowling 
flight. Instead of finishing with a joke, he 
stopped short with his mouth open and his 
eyes staring straight before him. 

" Great heavens ! " he slowly ejaculated. 
" Just look at that ! " 

Following the direction of his eyes, Adela 
looked into the paling sky and beheld a 
singular and fascinating spectacle. A tower- 
ing white wall of fog came marching towards 
them over the Downs. Gigantic in bulk, 
moving in sBence, it advanced at an 
astonishing pace. 

" Quick, Mrs. Risdon ! " cried Cartan. 
" We must run for the road. We can't steer 
the car through this." 

He flung open the door, pulled away the 
rugs, and helped the two to the ground. Then 
he dashed for the nearer head-light, wrenched 
it open, lighted it, and tore it from its bracket. 
Seizing Dorothy's hand, while Adela took the 
other, he led them rapidly in the direction of 
the road. 

The powerful glare of the lamp seemed to 
bore a tunnel through the fog before them, 
and Cartan pressed on, resolved to hold the 
direction by sheer force of will, if not by aid 
of eye. The wheel-tracks were untraceable, 
and though, for a time, he fancied he recog- 
nized the bushes and hoped further that sub- 
conscious recollection of their shapes would 
stand him in stead, he was soon disabused. 

" I believe we've passed the road," said 
Dorothy, presently. 

" We can't have* done that without seeing 
it," Cartan answered, and his tone told 
Adela what she had divined some minutes 
since — that Cartan was at a loss. 

" Why, what's that ? " she suddenly cried. 
By the extreme brilliance of the lamp's 
illumination her quick eye had detected 
something which, vague as it was, looked 
different from the dim bushes and scrub they 
had hitherto been monotonously passing. 

" Looks queer," said Cartan, turning his 
lamp thither. " Let's go and examine." 

Though they shrank from voicing it, the 
truth flashed upon them both. However, it 
was Dorothy who, a moment later, burst into 
a merry laugh. 

" Why, it's our car ! " she cried. 

Adela and Cartan looked at one another 
without a word. Then Cartan, determined 
not to reveal the anxiety he felt, said : — 

" Smart scoutcraft, Mrs. Risdon ! I should 
have gone by it like a blind man." He went 
up and lit the other lamp. " I think well 
seize the opportunity to have tea over a^rain/' 
he went on, with a gaiety he was far from 

They drank their tea standing in the cave 
of light carved by the lamps out of the sur- 
rounding murk, then, greatly fortified, 
returned to the consideration of their position. 
It was an uncommonly awkward one. The 
hour was past six, they were practically 
corralled in the impenetrable fog sixty miles 
from home, the best part of ten miles from a 
railway station (as Cartan made out from his 
map), nearly half as much from a village, 
and at least a quarter of a mile from a solitary 
road which they could not find. 

Cartan proposed that he should go alone 
to find the road, leaving them in the car with 
one lamp and the motor horn as signal, but 
Adela seized his arm and begged him to do 
no such thing. 

" Don't go, Frank ! " she said, reverting, 
without intending it, to their old custom of 
using each other's Christian names. " It is 
too risky. We'll all stay together, whatever 
we do. The fog may clear, you know, and 
then, if we can't get a lift, we'll walk to the 
nearest village and get a trap and drive into 
the station. There's no chance in a fog like 

They got up into the car and settled them- 
selves in the back seat, Adela and Cartan on 
cither side, with Dorothy jammed cosily 
between them. Snuggling down into the 
cushions, they pulled all the rugs over them, 
tucked themselves in, and were soon as warm 
as could be. Time was never tedious when 
the three friends were together, for whatever 
interested one necessarily interested the others. 
Adela mentioned that the boy would just be 
going to bed, Dorothy ejaculated, " Little 
darling ! " while Cartan uttered useless regrets 
for dragging them into this pickle. 

Then he told them tales of the Indian jungle 
and the nights he had spent there watching 
for tigers. Before long fatigue and the open 
air had their effect, and Dorothy calmly fell 
asleep in the middle of an exciting snake story. 
Adela tned to- keep avrake, but the pleasant 


,_ J 



sound of Cartan's voice did not help her, and 
presently she, too, slept. 

Then Cartan, finding that the customary 
exclamations and interruptions had ceased, 
guessed the reason and stopped. Sitting 
there beside his sleeping chums, his mind 
wandered back to the beginning of these seven 
years of exile and the events which had led 
up to thenu He wondered whether Adela 
had really been happy — he could hardly 
believe it, but felt too doubtful of his own 
Judgment of these things to be sure — and 
whether he himself could have made her 
happier. He found himself imagining how 
ardently he would try, if he had the chance, 
even now ; and then, clean-hearted gentle- 
man that he was, he realized that he had 
wandered on to doubtful ground, and dropped 
the guillotine on his reflections. 

He cast his eye upwards and observed that 
the fog was as thick as ever, and so still that 
every molecule of it seemed poised motion- 
less. He saw that the head-lights were burn- 
ing steadily, gilding the gloom and endowing 
each blade of grass and spine of gorse with 
unwonted individuality. He listened con- 
tentedly to the utter stillness, looked with a 
twinge of remorse at the sleeping passengers, 
leaned gently over and lifted her wrap a little 
higher about Adela's neck, gave the rug 
another tuck on his own side, lay back in such 
a way as to shelter Dorothy with his body, and 
went to sleep. 

And if, in the hours of oblivion, his head 
drooped towards Adela's, and hers towards 
his, until, all unconsciously, they gently 
met and rested together above the child, 
and if their sleep was the deeper and 
sweeter for it, who shall think blame of them 
for what befell without intention of either ? 

Adela woke first, and, conscious of a strange 
sense of contentment, lay still with her eyes 
closed. As fuller consciousness returned to 
her she began to wonder where she was ; then 
she became aware that her cheek was resting 
on soft skin and crisping hair. Instantly she 
opened her eyes. When she saw how she had 
been sleeping a deep blush covered her face, 
and ever so gently she lifted her cheek away, 
her heart standing still for fear he should 
wake. She was barely in time, for Cartan, as 
though some spell had been suddenly broken, 
opened his eyes and looked into hers. 

Now, while their eyes were open, their 
spirits still lingered on the outskirts of sleep, 
as loath to leave the untrammelled land where 
the hours had passed so sweetly. For one 
instant they stood together on the magic 

Vol. *lvii.-22 

border marches — dream-lovers translated into 
flesh and blood — and it was by no waking 
will of theirs that the eyes which looked into 
each other's were full of melting tenderness. 
Then, swift as a flash, Consciousness sprang 
upon his throne and they were their daylight 
selves again, instantly subject to the code of 
honour which ruled their waking lives. 

Dawn was breaking. The fog had vanished 
as it came, in silent majesty, and left the 
world as clear as if it had never been. A mild, 
sweet breeze was blowing from the west, and 
in the brightening sky above their heads 
larks were singing. Adela glanced towards 
the slumbering Dorothy and held up a warn- 
ing finger. Cartan cautiously extricated 
himself from the rugs and stepped out on to 
the grass, then went round to her side of the 
car and helped her to do the same. 

He took her hand in his strong clasp, half 
tucking her arm under his, and drew her away 
from the car so that their voices should not 
waken the little sleeper. Instinct told him 
that Adela might find cause for self-reproach 
in this night's adventure, but he .was resolved 
that such thoughts should have no resting- 
place in her mind. The blame, if blame there 
was, must be on his shoulders and his alone. 
So that when Adela began rather uneasily to 
say, " What made us sleep so long ? " Cartan 
answered, with assurance : — 

" The best thing we could possibly have 
done. It would have been madness to move 
a step in that fog — what a blanket it was, 
wasn't it ? Let us be thankful it's gone. 
We'll be off in no time now, as fresh as birds. 
No need to ask how you slept, Mrs. Risdon ? " 
with a glance at her bright cheeks. 

" Terribly well," said Adela, softly. Then 
quickly added, " But, really, I wonder we 
didn't perish, sitting all night in the fog! 
It was those rugs of yours that saved us." 

" Perhaps," said Cartan ; " but come along, 
let's get some breakfast, and then we'll be off. 
I don't know what your husband will have to 
say to me about it all." 

The exaggerated gravity of his tone and 
the humorous twinkle in his eye made it 
perfectly clear that his anxiety was not very 
real. As a matter of fact, though he was, 
indeed, grieved to have inflicted such an 
experience on his dearest friends, albeit 
involuntarily, it never for a moment occurred 
to him that there could be any trouble with 
Risdon. Simple-hearted himself, innocent of 
evil intent, and always ready to believe the 
same of others, he could not imagine, nor 
did he try to, that others should think evil 
where no evil was r jgj na | f 


i 7 8 


Accordingly, when at last they got back to 
town some time in the forenoon, Car tan was 
astounded to find his apologies received in 
chilly silence. They had telegraphed early in 
the morning from the country railway-station, 
but Risdon did not pretend to have felt 
anxiety about them. He listened to the 
story of their adventure with a scowl on his 
pale face. 

" I am very, very sorry, Risdon," said 
Cartan, finally. " I can't blame myself 
enough. The responsibility is entirely mine, 
that's certain. And if the ladies have not 
suffered, as I hope they haven't, then I'm a 
luckier fellow than 1 deserve to be." 

" We are as well as we can possibly be, 
aren't we, Dorothy ? " said Adela, smiling. 
" Don't say another word about it, Mr. 
Cartan. Please ! " 

Cartan stood up to go. He shook hands 
with Adela and Dorothy, then held out his 
hand to Risdon. Instead of taking it, Risdon 
went to the door and held it open. If Cartan 
had had only himself to consider, he might 
have acted very differently then. As it was, 
he simply said : — 

" Don't be huffy, Risdon, old man. You 
know I'm as sorry su a man can be, but all's 
well that ends well ! " 

" Poor Adela ! " he added to himself, as he 
stepped- into the street. " What a fellow to 
live with ! I don't like the look of him, but 
I sincerely hope he'll come round. Poor 
Adela ! I wish I could be with you ! " 

Cartan gone, Risdon turned back into the 
room. His face was paper-white, his thin 
lips bloodless. He was quivering. Adela 
had never seen him like this, and his anger 
puzzled her ; it was so long since he had shown 
interest in her doings. For a moment passion 
seemed to paralyze his brain so that he could 
not formulate his words ; his lips moved, but 
no sound came from them. When he did 
speak the words came quietly, with venomous 
distinctness : — 

" How dare you ? How dare you ? The 
fog ! Bah ! You fools ! Did you think 
that story would deceive me ? " 

" Have you ever known me lie, Dick ? ' 

" You are lying for your lover ! " He 
spoke in cruelty, intending to wound her. 
And in truth he wounded her more deeply 
than he knew, for a chaste woman's modesty 
is beyond man's knowing. Adela was shocked, 
terrified at the shameful word. She flushed 
crimson, turned faint, did not know what to 
say or do. 

" Take it back ! " she said, in a strained 
whisper. " Take it back ! " 

by Google 

Risdon's coarser clay misunderstood her. 
as it was bound to do. Savagely he probed 
the wound he had made. 

" Do you suppose I haven't seen it ? I 
have been waiting for this. You have spent 
your days with him, now you want " 

" Stop ! " Her heart was sick- She feb 
near to perishing. No bodily torment could 
have racked her so. 

" You are tired of me, are you ! Very wl 
That can easily be arranged. Now, lister! 
Go out of the house and never come back. 
Do you hear ? I've done with you." 

The cold fury of his voice was terrible. 
Yet Adela did not, could not, believe that he 
really intended what he said. She saw that 
he was beside himself with anger, and she was 
wise enough to know that if she, too, lost her 
temper disastrous things might happen whkk 
nothing could undo. She, therefore, held 
herself in command, and answered, quietly :— 

" I don't think you know what you are 
saying. If you do, you are not the man I 
should ever wish to live with again. ^ ou 
had better think it over. Come, Dorry ! " 

She was still dressed for outdoors. Dorothy 
ran to her, and they went out hand-in-hand. 

When she was gone, the white heat of 
Risdon's jealousy began to cool, but M 
cooling it turned not to reason, but to hate- 
cold, immovable hatred of the man who had 
wounded his vanity by winning his wifes 
regard, hatred of the wife who had contributed 
to his humiliation by giving to another man 
what he himself had neglected to encourage 
and deserved to lose. 

Did he know in his heart that his wife was 
honest and true ? Who can say ? If he did, 
he chose to crush that knowledge out of sight 
If he had made a mistake, pride, as yet, 
prevented him from admitting it. He would 
punish her. He would take the chance they 
had given him to cast her out of his life- 
She should never darken his door again* 
And, the better to sweep her from his 
memory, he would move away to some place 
where she had never been nor ever should be. 

Accordingly, on the evening of this painful 
day Risdon began to pack up his papers. The 
light from the shaded lamp fell brightly on 
the writing-table at which he worked — untying 
methodical bundles, examining, weeding out, 
rearranging. As he re-tied each bundle, be 
packed it carefully away in a large tin box 
lying open beside him on the floor. Then, 
when the table was clear, he crossed the roofli, 
entered a huge safe, and emerged with a fresh 
armful, which he proceeded to attack ** 

Original from 




Through the open door he could look across 
the passage and into the bedroom where the 
boy lay sleeping and the nur^ sat busily 
writing at a small table drawn up near the 
little bed* The hours passed in silence, 
broken only by the rustling of papers and the 
ticking of the clock ; in this respectable part 

that the presence was not hers. He looked 
up quickly and saw his wife bending over the 
sleeping boy. As he looked, Adela stood up 
and came into the study, loosing her cloak as 
she came, Dorothy, who was behind her, 
darted at the boy and brushed his forehead 
with a kiss, then followed Adela into the 

Risdon stared at his wife as though she 
were a ghost. Notwithstanding that no 

<p IET OUT Of I 1 1 I : I [O I ' S K AMI N M V I R COM R BAC K. 

of *ne town the .streets were already quiet 
save for the muted rumble of distant traffic. 

Towards midnight the nurse tapped softly 
at the open study door and asked permission 
to run out and post her letter. Risdon, 
frowning at the disturbance, gave an 
ungracious " Yes/' turned back to his 
papers with a gesture of annoyance, and 
again became engrossed 

When, a few moments later, he heard the 
rustle of skirts in the bedroom, he at first 
imagined that it was the nurse returned. 
Then it occurred to his subconsciousness that 
she was too quickly back , and at the same time 
his senses became aware in some subtle wav 


more than a single afternoon and evening 
had passed since he saw her there 7 the idea 
conteived in a moment of bitter passion that 
she -no longer belonged to his life had taken 
hold of his mind and remained there unques- 
tioned, while his attention was fiercely fixed 
on the task before him. 

'* The front door was wide open," said 

The smart of her husband's shameful words 
was still with her, but she felt that he mu t, 
long since, have regretted them, and she was 
resolved, for the children's sake especially, 
to accept his repentance in all good will. 

Ridson said nothing, but his brows were 




by CiC 







-- ■ 

""** H,s ™*»r ™ , Tl swavT 

IT TO/ 1 



contracted and his eyes glowering. Adela, 
willing to give him time and even to build 
him a golden bridge, went on, quietly : — 

" We had an excellent dinner at the Riche 
and then went on to Dorry's favourite picture 
palace.' ' 

Still Risdon did not speak, but he turned 
his eyes away from her steady, questioning 
gaze. Adela beat about the bush no longer. 
Lowering her voice a little, but speaking very 
distinctly, she said : — 

" I think you have something to say to me, 
'iave you not ? " 

Even in his black hatred Risdon could not 
fail to see what a charming woman she was. 
Her face, courageous and tender and frank, 
was aglow from the cold night air and framed 
in loose tendrils of fine brown hair, her figure 
restrained yet alluring ; her clothes were 
dainty as ever, and womanly vitality flowed 
irresistibly from her person. 

Risdon saw her charm, but he did not feel 
it ; and the thought that another could, and 
did, drove him suddenly frantic. 

He uttered nth word, but an inarticulate 
growl came from his lips. Springing from his 
chair, he rushed upon her. 

Adela did not flinch ; she simply stepped 
back one pace to avoid the impact of his body. 
Risdon lifted his fist, then, changing his mind, 
placed his hand upon her waist and, with the 
frightful force of a maniac, impelled her into 
the open safe. 

Adela, taken unawares, was helpless to 
resist. A heart-broken gasp, not of fear but 
of horrified surprise, of bitter misery, then a 
soft and terrible thud as her head struck the 
edge of a steel shelf — and no more sound. 

Dorothy, with a cry of terror, ran towards 
her mother. 

Risdon, infuriated the more by the spec- 
tacle of his own violence, seized her as she 
passed and sent her hurtling after. The 
poor little girl was flung to the floor of the 
safe, and lay stunned at her mother's feet. 

Risdon's eyes were blazing. He grasped 
the door and, throwing his weight upon it, 
swung it to and turned the handle. 

Then, his maniacal fury seemingly abated 
by action, he went back to his desk, took up 
a pile of papers with trembling hands, and 
essayed to read. Before many moments had 
passed a glimmer of reason began to return 
to him, and with it fear. Also, deadly ex- 
haustion succeeded his brain-storm. 

He put down the papers, pushed back his 
chair, and started towards the safe. Just 
then he heard the nurse come in, and he stood 
Stock still. In his frenzy he had forgotten 

the nurse. What if she had seen them come 
into the flat ? He must settle the question 
at once. 

He called the nurse and, in as steady a tone 
as he could compass, asked : — 

" Many people about, nurse ? " 

" Nobody, sir ; I didn't meet a single soul, 
either going or coming," said the nurse. 

" Very well, then ; you had better get to 
bed now." 

At least, the nurse did not know of his 
wife's return, and quite possibly nobody else 
did. He shut the study door carefully. 

Not a sound came from the safe. What 

if No, no ; it could not be ! He had 

not meant to be so violent. 

He waited until he heard the nurse shut 
and lock her door, then he cautiously turned 
the handle of the safe and pulled it open. 

He peered swiftly in, thinking to see Adela 
standing where he had last seen her when he 
slammed the door, and for an instant he 
thought she was not there. Was the whole 
thing a nightmare ? Then his eye sought 
downwards, and what he saw made him 
shiver. Adela had fallen, but the steel wall 
had partially supported her, and now she 
was leaning forward over the prostrate 
Dorothy as though in motherly solicitude. 
But there was a ghastly limpness in her 
posture which did not belong to life. Her 
arm hung downwards and the tips of her 
fingers rested on Dorothy's golden hair. 
Dorothy had not moved. 

Trembling violently, faint and sick with 
fear, Risdon listened for the sound of 
breathing. His eye sought Adela's bosom. He 
touched her hand — it was without resistance. 
He bent down and put his ear to Dorothy's 
mouth ; he put his hand over her heart. 
But he knew it was all useless. Shaking hand 
and vision distraught — he could not tru. c t 
his senses. He was helpless in the presence 
of his crime. 

With an effort he turned away and tottered 
across the room. In a moment he was back 
again at the safe. 

" Adela ! Adela ! " he whispered, tensely. 
But that still figure never moved. 

He bent down and softly called " Dorry ! " 
But Dorothy was still. 

The horror of it ! His brain seemed to 
tighten and tighten till the agony drove all 
other thought from his head. He could not 
bear it, and he cried aloud. Then darkness 
rushed down on him and he fell. 

Presently he arose and mechanically closed 
the steel door, turned the handle, locked both 

lcx ftftifflfeSTf tfctoii* pocket - ^ 




he went back to his chair and for a long time 
sat staring into vacancy. Suddenly he seized 
pen and paper and began to write furiously. 

Hours later, when the maid came to sweep 
the room, she was surprised to find her master 
writing there with the lights still burning, 
though it was broad daylight. She stam- 
mered an apology and went out again. 

He took no heed of the breakfast-bell, and 
when the nurse went in with some tea and 
toast on a tray he was still writing, writing 

The nurse, rather scared, was glad to get 
out of the room. She was wondering what 
it all meant, when the bell rang and, to her 
great relief, Cartan appeared, having called 
to inquire for the ladies' health after their 
adventure. The nurse told him that her 
mistress and Miss Dorry had gone away 
yesterday, but she did not know where, and 
the master was writing in the study, but 
seemed peculiar in manner. 

Very much disturbed, Cartan walked into 
the study. He spoke to Risdon. Risdon 
made no reply, but gazed at him for a moment 
with glassy, unrecognizing eyes, then turned 
to write again with feverish haste, as though 
he had a great task to do and feared he might 
not complete it. 

Desk and floor were littered with sheets 
half scrawled over in a big, untidy hand. 
Feeling that something must be seriously 
wrong, Cartan came nearer, and his eye 
wandered involuntarily to the writing on the 
sheets. It was all in red ink, and consisted 
of three sentences, repeated over and over 
again : " Dorry had golden hair* Adela was 
mine. I killed them ! . . . Dorry had golden 
hair. Adela was mine. I killed them ! . . . 
Dorry had golden hair. Adela was mine. I 
killed them ! " 

Cartan seized him by the shoulders and 
shook him roughly. 

" What's this, Risdon ? What are you 
doing ? What's this I see ? What have you 
done ? " he cried. 

Risdon made no answer, did not even look 
up, but tried with feeble fingers to dislodge 
Cartan's grasp. Finding he could get nothing 
out of him, and seeing that something was 
seriously wrong, Cartan telephoned for the 
doctor. Then he called the nurse and the 
maid and cross-examined them concerning 
Adela and Dorothy. They could give him 
little help, and he rang up any of Adela's 
friends he could think of, but learned nothing 
of her movements. 

The doctor easily recognized Risdon's case 

as one of acute primary dementia, and ordered 
his immediate removal to a private asylum. 
Cartan, holding back nothing, eagerly ques- 
tioned the doctor as to the likelihood of truth 
in a madman's ravings. 

As they conversed together they were 
electrified to hear a low, eerie, moaning sound. 
It seemed to come from just behind them. 
Cartan spun round as if he had been shot, but 
he saw nothing. 

While he stood bewildered, with every sense 
acutely alert, the moan came again — mournful 
and appealing. Then the light broke in upon 
him, and instantly he became like a man 

He sprang for the safe and wrenched 
furiously at the handle, but could not 
move it. 

" The keys ! The keys ! " he cried. 

The doctor, hardly less excited, was already 
at the door shouting for the servants. 

" The keys of the safe ! Where are they 
kept ? " 

The nurse came running towards him. 
" The master generally " she began. 

The words were scarcely out of her mouth 
when Cartan leapt upon Risdon where he sat, 
quaking and mowing, at his desk. With never 
a word, but with jaws closed tight and fierce, 
concentrated energy in every line of his face 
and movement of his body, Cartan thrust 
his hands into Risdon's pockets, found 
the key-chain, and, without a moment's ruth, 
tore keys, chain and all, from the madman's 

Meanwhile the doctor, with his ear to the 
tiny grille in the safe door, was listening 
intently. He gave place to Cartan, who fell 
on his knees and, keeping an iron grip upon 
himself, selected the likeliest keys with a 
hand that did not falter. 

The keys were turned, the safe sprang open. 
A sob burst from Cartan, tears rushed into 
his eyes ; but he was on his knees again before 
the doctor could step forward. Carefully, 
tenderly, he lifted little Dorry and passed her 
to the doctor's willing hands. Then he stood 
up, and for the first time in his life took Adela's 
dear body in his arms, carried her from the 
safe which l\pd nearly been a tomb, and laid 
her on the floor beside Dorry. 

Then the doctor took off his coat. 

Risdon died soon after his admission to the 
asylum. When Cartan's leave was nearly up 
he came to Adela (she was still pale and weak, 
but very, very sweet) and told her he had taken 
three extra passages. In the following year 
there was 0, wedding in the Indian hills. 




The Memoirs of the Infanta Eulalia^— sister of the late King of Spain 
ana aunt of the reigning Sovereign — will be found or unique interest. 
For the first time in history a Princess of the Royal Blood has told 
the story of her own life, with all her thoughts and feelings., from her 
earliest days- The Memoirs are brilliantly written, and provide a most 
striking picture of Court life as seeiL from t?n: inside, 

Copyright h all countries under t^.^ff^f^^ MICHIGAN 



N speaking of one's past it is 
difficult not to take a present 
point of view ; and when I 
say that being a Royal person 
in Spain had its serious 
aspects — because I could not 
love or marry as a private 

rTson — I mean that it had those aspects as 
look back upon it. At the time I was not 
aware of them. They were accepted by me 
as constituting the natural order of life. Long 
before I could begin to think of such things 
as love and marriage I had been schooled 
to the idea that I could have such relations 
only with Royal persons. Humanity was 
divided in my mind into three sexes ; there 
were women, men of Royal birth, and a 

third sex, who were to me, as you might say, 
priests. Any affair of love with the latter 
was unthinkable — not only to me but to 
them. It never entered my mind, any more 
than it would with a priest. If it ever 
entered their minds, I could not know it, 
because they could not speak to me, even if 
they wished. 

In the palace of Madrid f when the usher 
would take me to the antechamber of my 
brother's apartments , I would always have 
an interval of waiting while word of my visit 
was being carried to the King. And during 
that interval there would usually be some 
young officers or aides-de-camp standing in 
another part of the room- Since they were 
Spaniards, and I was not hideous, if I glanced 
at therr 1 found them trying to look romantic. 

1 86 


If one of them was alum*, he would either sigh 
M like a furnace ** as Shakespeare says, or try to 
look unutterable silences across the room. At 
first this embarrassed 
me. But when I grew 
reassured by the fact 
that none of them 
dared approach me or 
speak to me, I found it 
comical ; and I used 
to watch them slyly to 
see whether they were 
going to be melancholy 
and sigh, or make lam- 
bent calf s eyes at me 
in the best Spanish 
manner. Afterwards I 
would tell my brother, 
and he would laugh, 
because he knew the 
officers and enjoyed 
teasing them. It be- 
came one of the little 
jokes between us, that 
all his young aides were 
languishing their lives 
away in hopeless de- 
votion to me. Later, 
some of them— unwill- 
ing, perhaps 3 to be 
mere 1 y amusing — an- 
nounced that they 
were going to blow out 
their brains. I never 
heard that any did it ; 
and I did not see what 
satisfaction it would 
have been to them if 
they had. I supposed 
that they came to the 
same conclusion them- 





selves. After a while I learned that one does 
not take such threats of self-destruction 
seriously in Spain, They are only a form of 
mild attention paid to ladies by the gallantry 
that wishes to be dashing. 

At luncheons, when the officers ale with us, 
even sighs were impossible ; and they behaved 
like very good boys before the school-teacher. 
My own behaviour must have betrayed 

amused interest, for I 
remember that our 
mistress of the robes — 
called the "aya** — who 
is a sort of Court 
duenna, read me long 
lectures on the govem- 
ment of my eyes. 
When a man conversed 
with me I must not 
look directly at him. 
That look, in Spain ? 
meant courtship, I 
must always look down, 
and just glance at him sidelong, under the 
ends of my eyelashes, demurely. The Spanish 
girls do it very well, but my eyes were not 
Spanish. I had the habit of direct gaze ; and 
after repeated lectures from the aya I pre- 
tended that I had acquired a squint from 
trying to look sideways ; and this annoyed 
the ay a and made fun for my brother. 

rhqSDAabbLijir^ l aw. 1 tft«Bh |l t to regard men 





priest consulted the girl's parents, and if the match 
was thought suitable, arrangements were made 
for her io attend certain masses on certain 
mornings with her chaperon. Her official cavalier 
then posted himself somewhere near, made eyes 
at her during the service, and stood at the holy- 
water font when mass was over, to offer her 
holy water as she went out. It was possible, 
also, to leave a letter at the church door with 
some old beggar, who would deliver it to the 
proper person in return for alms ; but this corre- 
spondence was not for young girls. Their courting 
was carried on by means of devout looks, which 
were not required, one hopes, to be too oblique, 
I thought it very silly, and I said so; but 
the girls argued, piously, that since 
\ love was " a sacrament " it was 

i right it should begin with holy 

water and benefit of clergy. I 
\ s do not remember that the 
^ ^ same argument w r as made 

for the intriguing ladies 

as some sort of wild animal, whom it is dangerous to meet 
unless one is well protected by chaperons ; and they become as 
timid as Oriental girls, and, of course, as curious. Sometimes 
in the evenings, when my sisters and I were with my brother 
in his apartments, he would have with him young men of the 
Court, friends of his own age, grandees' sons and members of 
the foreign legations, who went shooting and hunting with 
him. And I enjoyed talking and listening to them, much 
more than conversing with the young ladies of noble families 
who were uwited to Court as companions to us Infantas* 
The men had travelled, and read, and met interesting 
people. The girls had had no experiences and no thoughts 
They could talk only of their religion or of their fiances. 

They went to church for both. When a young Spaniard 
wished to begin courting he told the priest about it. The 



who carried on their correspondence through 
the beggars. As a matter of fact, the relations 
between the sexes were all wrong, since there 
could be no secure happiness based on such 
ignorance and Orientalism in a Western com- 
munity, where the women cannot be denied 
after marriage the liberty for which they are 
not prepared before marriage. 

When I was about fifteen years old, a young 
Austrian archduke came to Madrid to visit 
my brother, and I was presented to him with 
my sisters, and saw him at a distance at the 
dinner-table, and bowed to him as I passed 
him in the hall. Next morning my brother 
summoned me to his apartments to tell me 
that the archduke wished to become engaged 
to me. " But," I said, amazed, " I have 
scarcely spoken to him ! " Never mind ; he 
had said he was in love with me ; he wanted 
to marry me. And as soon as I had recovered 
from my first astonishment, the idea delighted 
me. To be engaged ! It made me feel 
quite grown-up. Quite important. Almost 
married. And I thought it would give me a 
standing at Court that would prevent the 
mistress of the robes from being so dictatorial. 

It would be impossible for me to marry for 
some time. Our family fortunes had been so 
depleted during the revolution that I had no 
dot. And the young archduke had not yet 
come into his estate either. My brother, 
acting as a father to his sisters, was paying 
all our expenses out of his own pocket, and 
saving for us, as dots, the moneys that were 
allowed us by the Government. So it was 
agreed that my engagement with the arch- 
duke should not be made public and official 
until enough money had been saved to make 
a provision for me. 

Meanwhile I was privately engaged — and 
very proud of it. It was not extraordinary, 
in the Spanish Royal Family, for a girl to be 
engaged in her teens. My sister Isabel had 
been married at sixteen ; and my grand-aunt, 
the Infanta Luisa Carlota, had been married 
at thirteen and was a grandmother at twenty- 
seven. But neither of my other sisters was 
engaged yet, and I enjoyed the advantage 
over them. 

Even so, the archduke was not allowed to 
see me alone, and his courtship had to be 
formal. We were allowed to walk together 
in the garden of the palace, but only under 
the chaperonage of a lady-in-waiting, who 
followed a few paces behind us. One day, 
turning a corner of the path, we were hidden 
for a moment from the eyes of our chaperon, 
and the archduke seized his opportunity to 
kiss me. There was an adventure for you ! 

Digitized by v^i 

When wef returned to the palace I hastened 
to tell my sister. She was horrified. She 
ran to tell the governess. The governess was 
even more shocked. She declared that I had j 
committed a mortal sin. " Good ! " I cried I 
" I'm glad of it ! At last I have committed I 
a mortal sin ! I didn't think it was possiblr I 
— the way I am watched." There was a 
great* to-do. They declared that I must go 
to confession at once. 

I went, next morning, defiantly, arid in 
such excitement that I confessed in a vokt 
that could be heard by everyone near the 
confessional. I had committed a mortal sin ! 
I had been kissed by the archduke ! And the 
manner in which I blurted it out was so funny 
that the priest burst out laughing. I asked 
him how it could be a sin to be kissed by 
the man who was going to marry me. He 
replied, teasing me, " But if you don't marry 
him, still the kiss will remain." " I don't 
care," I said ; " it won't show." He assured 
me, finally, that it was not a sin at all ; and 
perhaps I should have been crestfallen if it 
were not that I had triumphed over the others. 
Then, as the story got about, it started a 
reputation for me as a flirt, which I enjoyed 
innocently. An Infanta of Spain kissed by 
a man at fifteen ! It was almost a record. 

When the archduke went away we were 
allowed to write to each other, though, of 
course, our letters had to be read by someone. 
I gave mine to my brother, but I do not 
suppose he ever glanced at them ; the letters I 
of a girl of fifteen, in such circumstances, 
would not be very interesting. I began to 
ask questions about the Austrian Court, 
where I should have to live after I married ; 
and the reports I heard of it were not reas- 
suring. The etiquette was most strict. I 
should be worse off there than in Madrid. 
And I should be separated from my brother. 
Very soon I did not like the thought of my 
engagement at all. 

My brother had told us, at our first meeting 
on our return to Spain, that he was in love 
with a daughter of the Due de Montpensier ; 
that they had been corresponding unknown 
to her family — who were not so strict as ours 
— and that he intended to marry her. My 
mother was outraged at this announcement, 
for it was well known that the Due de Mont- 
pensier had helped to bring about the revolu- 
tion that had lost her the throne. When we 
went to Sevilla, to live in the Alcazar, she 
forgave the Due, who had a palace in Sevilla, 
but she continued to intrigue against my 
brother's marriage ; and it was because of 
this that he quarrelled with her, and let her 




go back to France when we Infantas came to 
live with him in Madrid. 

The Due de Montpensier was the youngest 

son of King Louis Philippe of France, and — 

like all that King's sons — extremely clever. 

"He had married my mother's sister, another 

daughter of King Ferdinand VII., on the 

same day that my parents married ; and he 

had lived in Spain ever since. In Sevilla my 

sisters and I became very friendly with our 

young cousins, the Due's children, and I 

became like another daughter to the Due, 

•whom I adored. He had all the charm of 

the esprit Fran^ais, animated and witty, 

accustomed to conversation with clever 

people, tolerant of opinions opposed to his 

own, and hating — more than anything else 

in the world — stupidity. He delighted me. 

He sympathized with me. I used to tell him 

all my little troubles. 

I think that when the history of my mother's 
reign and the republic is written, it will lay 
great stress on the Due's influence in Spain. 
At once, on his arrival, he had attracted to 
himself all the Liberal elements in the Spanish 
Court, unconsciously, as mind attracts mind. 
He became the head of a Liberal party — 
subsequently called the " Orleans " party, 
because he was of the House of Orleans — 
although he always declared that he had 
neither desired nor tried to organize any 
following for himself. Men like the famous 
writer, Jose de Echegaray, gathered around 
him, and his palace became a centre for the 
dissemination of Liberal ideas. He was 
antagonistic to the Conservatives, who were 
chiefly Clerical ; and he was much feared and 
opposed by the priests. He wished to improve 
the conditions in Spain. He wished, as he 
used to say, humorously, " to make it habit- 
able." But I do not think that he had any 
personal ambition to rule ; for, although he 
had distinguished himself for bravery in the 
French army, and was a general in the 
Spanish army, he made no attempt to use his 
influence with the army or with the politicians, 
in order to obtain the throne for himself when 
it went begging after my mother lost it. He 
had not expected, he told me, that the 
reformers contemplated interfering with the 
ruling family. He supported the Liberals 
and gave them money, in the hope that they 
would correct the abuses and corruptions of 
misgovernment in Spain. And when no 
good came of it, he assisted the movement to 
call my brother to the throne* 

My brother was as devoted to him as I was, 
and held to his intention of marrying the 
Due's daughter in spite of all the intriguing 

and the opposition of people who feared the 
Due's influence, and the warnings that this 
was a new attempt of the Due to get back 
into political power by putting his daughter 
on the throne of Spain. It was a love match 
purely — the only one I ever knew in Royalty. 
For Royal love matches are usually marriages 
between persons of Royal birth who are 
enthusiastic because they find they have no 
positive aversion for each other. 

The Due, even in Sevilla, had planned to 
marry me to one of his sons, Antoine 
d'Orl&ms, whom I liked as a cousin, but 
had no other affection for. I said " No." 
When I came to Madrid this was still talked 
of, as such things are discussed in families, but 
I paid no attention to it. My engagement to 
the archduke ended it for a time ; but when 
I grew melancholy at the thought of going to 
Austria my brother would say, " Well, then, 
why not marry Antoine, and we shall never 
be separated." And if you have to marry 
someone who will be more or less indifferent 
to you — and you foresee that in one choice 
your father-in-law, at least, will be charming 
— and that choice will keep you near a beloved 
brother whom you might otherwise lose — 
well, why not ? Besides, I did not have to 
decide immediately. I could not marry 
anyone yet. I let it drift — and drifted with 

The Due, to encourage me, perhaps, told 
me. the story of his own marriage ; and I 
think it is unique even in the annals of Royal 
alliances. It was, of course, an affair of 
State, arranged for him. His bride, my aunt, 
was only fourteen years of age, and she could 
not speak a word of French. He spoke no 
Spanish. When they had been married — in 
great pomp, at a double wedding with my 
mother and father — he was left alone for the 
first time with his wife. And the poor child 
was so frightened that she began to cry. He 
did not know what to say to reassure her, 
since he could not say anything that she 
could understand ; and, looking around the 
room despairingly, his eye was caught by a 
movement of the curtains in the far corner of 
the bed-chamber. He looked more intently 
and made out the plume of a head-dress 
showing between the hangings. He rushed 
across the room and dragged out a lady-in- 
waiting ! His exasperation at his bride's sobs 
and his own inability to quieten her broke 
in fury on the head of the unfortunate woman. 
She explained as well as she could that they 
were afraid the bride would be too frightened 
if she were left alone with him, and they had 
agreed to conceal cine of her ladies behind the 




curtains to give her secretly a sort of moral 
support. The Due put her violently out of 
the room. " Spain ! " he would cry, as he 
told of it. " Spain ! Can you imagine it 
being done in any other country ? " And 
truly it has the naive duplicity about it that 
one finds peculiarly Spanish. 

I suppose that the Due had a strong influence 
on both my brother and me — on our opinions 
and our points of view — yet it must have 
been the influence of personality unconsciously 
exerted, for he always refrained from giving 
opinions about public affairs, even when he 
was asked for them. "No," he would say, 
" I have learned not to express my opinions. 
They are always brought back to me — so 
transformed that I cannot recognize them — 
and presented to me as my own. Look at the 
revolution." He conformed in matters of 
religion to comfort his wife, who was very 
devout ; but he never went to confession, 
and he required that when he attended mass 
the priests should not take more than twenty 
minutes for it. He would keep an eye on 
the clock, and when the twenty minutes had 
elapsed he would say, " Watch him now," 
and cough with peremptory impatience. The 
priest would immediately begin to race 
through to the conclusion of the service, and 
everyone would be anxious for him to finish, 
as if the Due's impatience were some terrible 
threat to be placated. Yet, for a man so 
feared, I never knew anyone less fearsome. 

He was very patriarchal-looking when I 
knew him — white-bearded, heavily-fleshed, 
and benign. To his receptions in the evening 
came all the clever people, of whatever opinion, 
and whenever bores arrived he pretended 
that they had come to see his wife, and had 
them ushered to her apartments, and said, 
contentedly, " There now. They will pray 
together and enjoy themselves." It was the 
one thing that he asked of life — not to be 
bored. Imagine how that would appeal to 
one in the atmosphere of a Court. For the 
plague of Courts is ennui. 

Princesses are peculiarly subject to it. A 
king or a prince has usually some work to 
do, some power to exercise. A princess is as 
much more idle than a young lady as a young 
lady is more idle than a working girl. In an 
attempt to keep up an exercise of my brain, 
I continued my studies during the whole ten 
years of my unmarried life in Spain — studying 
languages, the piano, singing, the harp, 
painting — and keeping myself occupied with 
reading and writing as well as I could. 
People tell me that princesses are stupid. I 
wonder that we are not all idiots. During 

my life in Madrid, almost my only public 
duty was to help lay corner-stones. I helped 
lay enough to pave the city. Whenever 
nothing else could be found to justi 
existence, the authorities would say, " 
let them lay a corner-stone." I 
believe that any other stones were put en 1 
of them. It is not possible. There were 1 
many. If the buildings had all been 
pleted there would not be room now, in die 
town, to walk. And the Te Deums thmt I 
listened to were numerous enough to exfcrast 
the ears of Heaven. 

I have already spoken of the audkttces 
that we gave. They were stupid beyond 
words. One received strangers under con- 
ditions of formality that made them more 
strange, asked silly little questions of the 
women — " Are you married ? " " How many 
children have you ? " — smiled politely, and 
waited for the next one. It is the sort of 
thing that you might expect from the Chinese. 
And the purely Court receptions were even 
worse. There you had not even strangers, so 
you could not ask them whether they were 
married. You knew — or you were expected 
to know — all the dignitaries, statesmen, 
officials, aides, and diplomats who make up the 
Court circle ; you met them again and again, 
for a perfunctory moment, said something 
innocuous, and passed on — until you met 
again. The problem was to think of some- 
thing to say each time. Once after a Royal 
chapel — when we always had to make a circle 
of a roomful of officials lined up around the 
walls — I noticed, as we approached one 
officer, that he wore black gloves with his 
uniform. It is a sign of deep mourning. The 
others of the Royal family, preceding me, 
made the usual conventional attempts to say 
a little of nothing as if it were something 
worth saying ; and so, when I came to him, 
although I had no idea who he was, I said, 
" I was deeply sorry to hear of your bereave- 
ment." The others, overhearing me, were 
mortified that they had not offered him their 
condolences too ; and when the reception 
was over they spoke to me about it. Whom 
had he lost ? How had I remembered it ? 
And when I explained what I had done, 
without knowing who the man was, even the 
King was envious. It was so difficult to have 
anything to say, and a Royal family is always 
so haunted by the problem that my little ruse 
quite made a reputation for me. And, if you 
can believe it, the officer was deeply touched 
and gratified, poor soul, by my knowing of his 
grief. It is on such trifles that a king makes 
his personal popularity. But what a life ! 



■_-l I '_| 1 1 I u I \ \s 





by Google 

Original from 

1 92 


£nwn ty W, S. WW^r, 







When my brother married the Due's 
daughter, Mercedes, we had that beautiful 
and charming creature added to our circle ; 
but they were such lovers and so happy 
together that we had our brother less, though 
we had Mercedes more. By this time I had 
quite lost interest in the daughters of the 
grandees whom my brother invited to Court 
to make companionship for us. They could 
play no game more active than croquet, 
which they played languidly. When I drove 
them behind my four ponies they wanted 
always to go to the parks, where they could 
look sidelong at the young men ; and I pre- 
ferred the country drives with more freedom. 
I soon wearied of a conversation that was 
all holy water and fiancis. And before long 
the Spanish young men came to bore me as 
much as their sisters. They had only one 
conversation for a woman — the romantically 
sentimental, exaggerated to the point of 
foolishness. It was too silly. If they were 
not pretending that they were blighted with 
melancholy because of your unearthly charms, 
they were assuring you that they would shed 
their blood for you. I did not want to see 
their blood, but their brains ; and they either 
had none or did not consider it necessary to 
use them in their conversation with a princess. 

In the evenings I often went to the opera, 
but my brother had no ear at all for music ; 
he could not tell the Royal March when it was 
played ; and he complained that the singing 
depressed him like the howling of a dog. So 
I went with my sisters and some older 
chaperon. One night, on our way to the 
opera, we had an adventure that could happen 
only in Spain. There, whenever the priest is 
summoned to attend the dying, he takes the 
sacrament and sets out on foot, accompanied 
by an attendant with a little bell. The first 
carriage that he meets, even if it be a hired 
hack, is stopped at the sound of the bell and 
he is invited to ride. If the hack then meets 
a private carriage of more luxury, it is the 
privilege of the owner to take the priest into 
his vehicle. And if the Royal carriage is met, 
the Royalty not only take the priest with 
them, but they are expected to follow into the 
house of the dying, and kneel in the death- 
chamber while the last rites are being 

On this night I was in our carriage with a 
princess who was most gorgeously arrayed in 
a bright green evening gown ornamented 
with silver, with a great display of jewels 
on her corsage, and on her head a huge rayed 
ornament of diamonds in the shape of a 
diadem. Her hair was prematurely grey and 
rather wild. She had been riding in the sun, 
and her face was flushed. She was an 
enormous woman — so large that she had to 
give up horseback-riding because it became 
impossible to find a horse capable of carrying 

We were scarcely well away from the 
palace when we heard approaching us the bell 
of the sacrament, and I said to her, hurriedly, 
" We can't go to a death-bed in this finery. 
I'll make the driver turn round." But 
she was very religious. It was a sacrilege to 
her to turn our backs on the Host. In spite 
of my protests, we met the priest, took him 
into the carriage, and drove him to his 
destination. There the princess and I fol- 
lowed him into the death-chamber, devoutly, 
though with very doubtful feelings on my 

We found a man dying of some sort of 
fever, lying on his back in bed, with a holy 
candle burning on his forehead — to improve 
his temperature, no doubt. He opened his 
eyes at our entrance ; and when he saw the 
unearthly apparition of the princess in bright 
green, with the hair and face of a soul in 
purgatory and a blaze of glory about her head, 
he sat up in bed with a shriek, pointed his 
shaking hand at her, and cried " Booh ! " 
That was all I saw. I got down on my 
knees, helpless with hysterical laughter, and 
covered my face with my hands. When the 
ceremony was over, I hurried out as best I 
could and went to pieces in the carriage. The 
man died that night. 

One would think it was not very sanitary 
to be mating such visits to fatal cases of 
disease. And it was not. We went once to 
the death-bed of a smallpox patient and 
knelt on pillows that had been under his head. 
But the Spanish people have no regard for 
sanitary conditions. They seem to have a 
vitality that is proof against infection ; and 
in the South of Spain particularly they li\ =5 
to incredible old age. 

(To be continued.) 

Vol. xlvii 23. 

by Google 

Original from 

>» Horse, 


HE great point of distinction 
between the two pretty sub- 
urban towns of EdgemerenDn- 
the- Rivulet and Edgemere- 
on-the-Heights lay in the fact 
that the former was easily 
reached by a short and ple- 
beian walk from the railway station, while 
tho latter was comfortably accessible only to 
those who owned motor-cars. 

Arkwrightj ever since he inherited from 
his father-in-law a small property in Standard 
Oil stock, had hovered unsatisfactorily mid- 
way between the two towns. He could not 
afford a car of any kind, but he bought 
a horse and trap, which met him every day 
at the station on his return home. 

It was at this point in his career that the 
Federal Government unscrambled the oil 
trust, to the complete and total satisfaction 
of Arkwright and his stock. Hardly had the 
stock ceased its upward flight before he had 
negotiated for the purchase of a house which, 
at the most conservative estimate^ called for 
a five-hundred-pound car. 

That neither good fortune nor bad affects 
us alone Is a platitude, but the devious out- 
working of this axiom is not always plati- 
tudinous. John Rainbridge, Ark Wright's 
cousin, who lived at Edgemere-on-the-Rivu- 
iet, had noted with patriotic indifference the 
indictment and trial of the oil trust as on his 

Illustrated by 
G. Henry Eviaon. 

by Oc 


way to and from town he scanned his daily 
paper ; he had read the report of its demise 
with patriotic scepticism, and he had smiled 
over its final resurrection with patriotic 
amusement. And yet, all the while, this 
episode was preparing to play a very important 
part in his life as inevitably, so faT as he was 
concerned, as if the trust was born, had lived, 
died, and risen for no other purpose on earth. 

Arkwright had no sooner received the deed 
of his new house and placed an order for his 
car than the question naturally arose as 
to what disposition should be made of the 
horse. He himself being a practical man, 
was eager to sell her ; but his wife, being a 
lady of some sentiment in spite of social 
aspirations, refused to consider this. Being 
also a lady of some force of character, this 
decision was final. 

* f Well, then ? " inquired Arkwright, wash- 
ing his hands of the whole matter. 

" There's Cousin John/* replied Mrs. Ark- 
wright ; " I'm sure he would take the best of 
care of Nellie/' 

" Your pro position j then, is that we should 
give John the horse and trap outright ? n 

" He's your cousin," Mrs. Arkwright 
reminded her husband, "And, besides, he 
lives so near that if we gave him Nellie wc 
could borrow her whenever we wished." 

f * My dear, our car is promised for delivery 
next week," 

Original from 




" Oh, I'm not suggesting that we ever 
should need Nellie again, but if we should " 

" Well ? " 

" Then we would." 

" That's so," admitted Arkwright, thought- 
fully. " I'll speak to John this morning." 

Cousin John was seated in a smoking 
carriage and was reading the financial page of 
the morning paper. He took about as much 
interest in the financial page as a man does 
in the racing news who never made a bet in 
his life. However, everyone in Edgemere-on- 
the-Rivulet read it, if for no other reason, 
not to be outdone by his neighbours. When 
Arkwright took a seat beside him Bainbridge 
looked up and nodded. 

" I see Coppers promise to be active again," 
observed Bainbridge. 

" Didn't .know you were interested in 
Coppers," replied Arkwright. 

11 Oh, yes. I'm not holding any, but I've 
always been interested in them. How's the 
new house getting on ? " 

" Expect to move in next week," Ark- 
wright answered, with some pride. " And, 
by the way, that reminds me that I must do 
something with Nellie. Won't need her with 
the car, you know." 

" Going to sell her ? " 

" No," Arkwright drawled, thoughtfully. 
" She's a valuable horse and ought to bring a 
good price, but — well, I have a little sentiment 
about the nag. We've had her five years, 
you know." 

Bainbridge nodded. 

" Didn't know but what I'd give her to 
some friend — someone who would be good to 

" Give her ? " inquired Bainbridge, with 
the first real interest he had shown. 

" For her keep. You understand how it 
is ; she's been a sort of pet, and so I'd like to 
have her somewhere near, where I could keep 
half an eye on her. If she ever got lone- 
some or anything I'd never forgive myself. 
Haven't room for a stable at your place, 
have you ? " 

" VVhy, I don't know," Bainbridge an- 
swered, wistfully j " I think I might squeeze 
one in." 

He already saw himself driving down to 
the station every morning. 

" I don't know another man I'd rather see 
have her," said Arkwright. 

" Say, it would be great ! Could take the 
kiddies out on Sunday afternoons." 

" Of course," nodded Arkwright, who had 
no kiddies. " And then, the wife " 

" I'm sure I could manage a stable all right," 

Digitized by CiOOQ l.C 

Bainbridge cut in, eagerly. " I could build 
most of it myself." 

" Then I'll speak to Mrs. Arkwright about 
it to-night, if you think " 

" Will you ? I — I can't tell you how grate- 
ful I should be." 

" Don't mention it. Will let you know 

Arkwright rose. As he was leaving he 
turned and said, as an after- thought : — 

" Don't suppose you'd object to our using 
her now and then ? " 

" Lord, man, she's your horse ! I should 
want you to feel free to use her whenever you 

" Thanks," said Arkwright, with a patron- 
izing smile. " I'm not suggesting we ever 
should, once the car comes ; but, if we 
should " 

" Any time," broke in Bainbridge, with a 
generous wave of his hand. 

Of course Mrs. Arkwright agreed to the 
proposition when her husband reported it to 
her that night as if it were his own inspira- 
tion. Arkwright immediately telephoned to 
John, and he, the next day, went to see an 
architect about the stable. 

Now, ordering a stable isn't like ordering a 
bale of hay — at least, not if an architect has 
the soul of an artist, and for a house in a town 
like Edgemere-on-the-Rivulet. To preserve 
the harmonies and keep the structure on an 
available twenty square feet of land, and still 
have it large enough to shelter a horse and 
carriage, is rather a neat problem. The archi- 
tect's idea was to guard against making the 
stable look like an excrescence — so to combine 
it with the house that the two should be one 
concordant whole — and yet as far as possible 
to keep the horse out of the kitchen. Then, 
too, the general contour of the surrounding 
sky-line must be taken into consideration. 
Bainbridge's first visit resulted in nothing 
more tangible than a general discussion which 
ended with an invitation to the architect's 
assistant to come down that night to dinner. 

Bainbridge felt freer to develop his own 
ideas with the younger man. 

" See here," he ventured, after the assistant 
had boxed the compass around the bit of 
green-sward, squinting through half-closed 
eyes at everything on the horizon-line. " See 
here ; what I want, you know, is just a barn." 

" What you want," the assistant corrected 
him, " is a stable — and not only a stable, but 
a stable that will blend into your house." 

" Of course, I want it to look all right, 
but " 

" We will attend to that." 




And this was all that Bainbridge was 
allowed to say. Indeed, beyond signing the 
paper of specifications in a sort of dazej he 
never again saw either the architect or his 
assistant. In due course of time, however, 
men appeared and began to dig. During the 
next month or two Bain bridge watched them, 
not only with Interest, but with considerable 
curiosity as to just what the thing was going 
to look like. 

In the meanwhile Arkwright had moved 

into his new house and let the old 
one, so that it became necessary 
for Bainbridge to take the horse 
at once. He found a boarding- 
stable where they agreed to give 
Nellie the best of care for a pound 
a week. This was on Thursday, 
At the suggestion of Bain bridge 
his wife invited Mrs* Clark, a 
neighbour to whom she was 
under certain social obligations, 
to join the family in the first drive into the 
country on Saturday, Bafobridge agreed to 
get the day off, and it was proposed to take 
along a lunch and enjoy a picnic under the 
trees, Mrs. Bainbridge rose early on Friday 
and worked until night making sandwiches, 
dainty turnovers, and a loaf of John's favourite 
cake* In addition to this, she found it neces- 
sary to iron two fresh dresses for the children, 
and to spend what time remained in prevent- 
ing them from over-eating and in suppressing 
their excitement over the prospective outing 
so that they would have a good night's sleep. 
However, she fulfilled these motherly duties 
with a good spirit, and, though at night she 
could hardly lift her feet, retired to rest with 
a smile on her lips, John did not reach home 
until eleven, as he had to remain late in order 
to put his business into shape so that he could 
leave it. Both were up betimes in the morn- 
ings and found a clear June sky to greet them* 

Breakfast -was quickly disposed of, the chil- 
dren dressed, the luncheon baskets packed, 
Mrs, Clark notified, and then, in one of the 
proudest moments of his life, John stepped 
to the telephone to summon his horse, 

" Halloa ! Is this Kelly's stable ? Halloa, 
Kelly I Will you send my trap round to the 
house at once ? Yes, this is Mr. Bainbridge, 
What's that you say ? Lame ? How the 
deuce did she get a nail in her foot ? Better 
not use her for a day or two ? }1 

By this time the whole family, which had 
gathered to witness this memorable occasion, 
had pressed closer. The two children, antici- 
pating a catastrophe, began to whimper. 
Mrs, Bain bridge, in a hoarse whisper , tried 10 
quiet them. 
11 What's that P " demanded Bainbridge. 
He couldn't hear the answer 
above the wailing* 

u For Heaven's sake, 
Mary, get those children out 
of the room. I can't hear 
what Kelly says, and don 1 
want them to hear what I'm 
going to say." 

Mrs, Bainbridge accom- 
plished the feat of 

by v^ 







removing the two kicking; screaming young- 
sters, but tumbled their dresses and her own 
hair in doing it. When Bainbridge joined 
them again his face was red and his fresh collar 
wilted- At this point Mrs. Clark entered, 
fresh and radiant and immaculate. 

"It seems the horse is lame in her rear off 
foot/' Bainbridge explained, as calmly as he 
could. " Kelly hasn't another horse in his 
stable , and so I don't see what we can do 
but take a car." 

Original from 




Under or- 
dinary cir- 
this would 
have been 
an accept- 
able propo- 
sition j but 
under the 
present cir- 
it came as a 
serious anti- 


spite 01 




best efforts, 
such it remained the rest of the day. 

It was two weeks before Nellie was fit to 
use again, and then Bainbridge discovered 
that he couldn't be driven to the station in 
the morning without rising half an hour 
earlier; and ? in view of the present load of 
responsibility he was carrying on account of 
his building operations, this was impossible. 
However, his stable was progressing, and, 
once the horse was next door 3 this difficulty 
would be overcome. He suggested that Mrs* 
Bainbridge should use the horse to return 
some afternoon calls^ but she declared that 
she wouldn't trust herself with a strange 
driver, and that, as the mother of two chil- 
dren , she wouldn't risk driving herself until 
John showed her how. He promised to give 
her the first lesson on the following Sunday ; 
but it rained all day, 
Wf *" ^9H ■ so he couldn't. On the 
^E^ fl filth Sunday they had 

^u ^^j to take the train and 

MQ V ^B H spend the day with 
ifc^^ ■ Grandmother Bain- 

^L ^ j bridge. So it was not 

M until the sixth Sunday 

■ V that he found another 

opportunity. He came 
home with a cold that 

■ iwL Saturday night, and 
M> 1 Mrs, Bainbridge would 

■ ^bf not listen to his going 

■ ^ out for three days. 
^N 1 ^ I In the meanwhile 

l^^^jPyi Mrs. Arkwright had 
used the horse half-a- 
dozen times to make 
some calls upon her old 
friends in Edgemere- 
by- the- Rivulet while the car was being re- 
paired. It seems that Arkwright was learn- 
ing to run the car himself, and had not been 

" MftS. CLARK 



by V_ 



altogether fortunate in his selection of the 
proper levers to pull at the proper times. 
However, this prevented the horse from 
getting foot-sore from disuse, so that Bain- 
bridge did not complain. 

By this time the stable, which had been 
progressing slowly but surely, began to take 
on flesh and assume the semblance of a build- 
ing. Bainbridge took heart at this. Once 
the animal — he always spoke of her now as 
" the animal " — was in his own stable and 
under his own care and convenient for his 
own use, he could have some comfort with 
her. He resolved not to bother any more 
with her until that happy time matured. 
Though he watched 
with some impa- 
tience the slow 
development of the 
building, he really, 
so far, had derived 
more satisfaction 
from it than he had 
from the horse it 
was designed to 
shelter. There was 
scarcely an evening 
that one or more 
of the neighbours 
didn't come over 
to discuss it and 
offer suggestions 
for its improve- 
ment, Bainbridge 
found himself 
repeating the 
favourite expres- 
sions of the archi- 
tect, until they fell 
so trippingly from 
his tongue that he 
began to feel as if 
they were the expression of his own artistic 
instinct. There was really no doubt that he 
was getting a pretty stable. It could not 
exactly be called impressive, but it was 
dainty* When the trimmings were on and it 
had received its second coat of white paint 
it looked so fresh and pert that at times 
Bainbridge was actually disturbed by the 
question whether it would not be advisable 
to make over the kitchen for the horse, and 
use the newer building as a sort of addition 
to the old house. He really needed more 
room. Although, when he first suggested 
this to his wife, it was in something the spirit 
of a jest, it became a matter for serious con- 
sideration after he had received the architect's 
final bill. With the extras, the stable was to 
Original from 




cost him something like four hundred pounds. 
Weak in the knees, Bainbridge protested* It 
would take every penny of his savings. The 
architect listened with some scorn. 

" I consider that stable one of the best of 
mv minor works/' he replied. 
" It's all right/' admitted Bainbridge ; " but 

I didn't in- 
tend to spend 
any such sum 
as that upon 
it. Why, the 
house didn't 
cost more 
than twice as 
much ! w 

"The cost?" 
inquired the 
architect ? with 
an astonished 
shrug of his 
"You can 
hardly expect 
me to pry into 
the personal 
affairs of my 

paid the bill. 
There wasn't 
anything else 
for him to do, 
and of course 
the initial 
fault was his 
for signing the 
while in a 
h y p n o t i c 
state* But the 
next thing he 
did was to 
remove the 
animal from 
Kelly's and 
cut off that 
additional ex- 
pense. Bain- 
bridge found 
it necessary to 
b orr o w a 
hatchet and 
cut a chunk 
out of the 
barn door in 
order to get the carriage in, but this he did 
with a certain relish. It would have been 
with a still keener relish, to be sure, had he 



by GoOgJC 

found an oppor- 
tunity to cut the 
same-sized chunk 
out of the archi- 
tect. If this was 
too much to ask ' 
for, he would 
have taken the 
assistant as an 
acceptable sub- 

There were 
several inciden- 
tals that Bain- 
bridge had neg- 
lected to provide 3 
such as hay and 
oats, which were 
fetching a high 
price. Besides 
these, it soon be- 
came evident 
that a blanket 
for the horse was 
necessary, to say 
nothing of a 

brush, curry-comb, pitchfork j shovel, carriage- 
sponge, carriage-jack j carriage -grease, and a 
peck measure. As he could not find a pkti u 
in the city where such things were given away, 
Bainbridge was forced to buy them. 

In his youth he had spent several years on 
a farm, and ? so far as the care of the animal 
went, he 
knew how 
lo attend to 
that, and 
looked for- 
ward to the 
work. He 
used all his 
spare time 
un til the 
Sunday in 
getting Nel- 
lie and the 
trap ready 
for the long- 
first drive, 
He worked 
until ten 


grooming night the telephone - bell 
the mare rang." 

Original from 




until she shone, and in washing the two- 
seater until it was speckless. Then, dog- 
tired ^ he tumbled into bed in order to be 
fresh for the morrow. 

At half-past twelve that night the tel> phone- 
bell rang, Bainbridge ignored it for five 
minutes , but it woke up the children , and the 
noise they made it was impossible to ignore* 
As he picked up the receiver the voice that 
answered sounded familiar, 
t( Oh, that you, Arkwright ? " 
u Yes/* came the reply, M I say, John, 
we're in a deuce of a fix. The car has broken 
down, Knew you wouldn't mind, under the 
circu instances , just slipping the harness on 
Nellie and driving us home," 
M What's that ? " 

£i We'll leave the car here until the morning ; 
but if you'd trot out and get Mrs. Arkwright 
and myself — 

M Where are you ? " 

11 Tell me how to find you ? " he choked. 
He received prompt and minute directions* 
Nellie objected to going out in the rain at 

that time of night as much as her new master, 

and 3 by finding an opportunity to step on 

Bainbridge's foot and another to crowd him 

almost fiat against the side of the stall, made 

herself clear on that 

point. She refused 

to open her mouth 

for the bit until 

B ai n bridge 

viciously seized her 

nose and cut off 

her wind. When he 

tried to adjust the 

crupper she pressed 

her tail down so 

tight that he was 

forced to resort to 


11 Just this side of Wiridmere. It isn't 
more than six miles/* 

Bainbridge swallowed hard. For a second 
he was on the point of referring Arkwright to 
a place w T hich has been variously estimated 
by some as nearer than six miles and by 
others as considerably farther. But his 
better nature checked him. After all, he was 
under deep obligations to Arkwright. It was 
he who had given him the horse. He couldn't 
very well leave his benefactor out in the rain 
all night — no matter how much satisfaction 
it would have given him at this moment. 
He must keep cool 

Digitized by dOOgle 




measures by no means endorsed by the S..P. C A. 
It took him three-quarters of an hour to 
harness her and fifteen minutes after that 
to open the barn door ? which had swollen. 
The only relief he had all this while was a 
mental picture of Arkwright and his wife 
huddled up disconsolately in the car waiting 
for him* 

As soon as Nellie became convinced that 
she had no alternative but to take this mid- 
night excursion she resolved to do it and get 
it over as soon as possible, Before Bain- 
bridge was fairly in she hotted out of the stable 




and almost threw him ^ — — ^ r . ,_ 
over the rear seat. 
From an upper win- 
dow he heard his wife ^~ 
calling after him ex* 
cited ly : " John, 
John 1 There's no use hurrying so ! " 

He didn't have time to reassure her, he- 
cause at that moment he was clutching 
at the dashboard. He didn't reach an equi- 
librium until he was half-way to the station t 
which was in exactly the opposite direction 
from that he had originally proposed to go. 

He succeeded in turning Nellie around only 
after she had given an exhilarating acrobatic 
demonstration of how neatly she could balance 
a carriage on one wheel He seized the whip, 
with the firm intention of Showing her once 
for all who was master ; but, finding an imme- 
diate use for both hands, was forced to drop 
it overboard. It seemed almost as if she 
were responding to the emergency call of her 
former master's voice, for she maintained 
this speed unchecked for the first three miles, 
and then settled down into a trot, which was 
fast enough for Bainbridge, considering the 
fact that the road was pitch- black and that 
the rain was beating against his glasses so 
that he couldn't see at alk Nellie had not 
given him time to pull the carriage -rug up 
over his knees, and so he was drenched to the 
skin. If he had thought It possible, he might 
have turned back. He was actually revolving 
this in his mind, when two demonish yellow 
eyes by the roadside informed him that he 
had reached his destination. He drew up 
beside the car and peered in* Arkwright, 
comfortably bundled up in a heavy coat in 
the snug recess of a corner beneath the rain- 
shield, was fast asleep. Mrs. Arkwright, also 
fast asleep, reposed comfortably with her 
head on her husband's shoulder. It was a 
rare picture of conjugal felicity and peace j 
it seemed a pity to disturb them. With 
clenched teeth Bain bridge wondered vaguely 
if it was his further duty to wait there in the 
rain until they awoke naturally. Nellie 
decided this by giving an impatient whinny. 
Arkwright, with a start, aroused Mrs. Ark- 
wright. The two sat up and blinked. 

M If you're all ready we might as well start 
back," suggested Bainhridge. 

" That you, John ? " replied Arkwright. 
" Must have taken half a wink. Hope we 
haven't put you to any trouble ? " 

11 Oh, no trouble at all," answered Bain- 
bridge, choking back the more natural, if less 
conventional, words that struggled hard for 
expression. " It's — it's a pleasure." 

by Google 

u So sweet of you, John [ " chirped Mrs. 

Arkwright assisted his wife into the rear 
seat, and piled in all the various robes after 
her. In two minutes they were both as snug 
and comfortable again as they had been in 
the machine. 

u All ready, John/' Arkwright announced, 

u Very well, sir/' replied John, respectfully 
tipping his cap. 

With this added weight behind her, Nellie 
became dispirited to such a degree that John 
could not force her out of a plodding walk. 
Having lost his whip, he could do nothing 
but slap her with the reins, which evoked no 
other response than an indifferent switch of 
her tail. The Arkwrights didn't mind this, 
because the easy-going gait only lulled them 
into a deeper slumber, but Bainbridge found 
his teeth beginning to chatter long before 
they reached the sharp incline leading to the 
Heights. It was half -past three when he 
drew up before the imposing new house and 
Arkwright assisted his wife out. 

" So sweet of you, John ! " she murmured, 
with a yawn. 

" Thanks, John ! " Arkwright added. 
" Hope Nellie won't catch cold. Better rub 
her down/' 

" All right, sir/ 3 responded Bainbridge, 
again unconsciously tipping his cap. 

It may be hardly necessary to add that 
Nellie did not get rubbed down. When John 
made his way upstairs , leaving a wet and 
muddy trail behind him, the clocks were 
chiming four. 

At eleven o'clock the next morning the 
tele phone -be II rang again. Bainbridge had not 
yet risen j but when his wife told him it was 
Arkwright who wanted him he rose at once* 

( * I call this an imposition," his wife pro- 
tested, mildly* 

Original from 





(i Oh, no," 
John; "don't 
call it that." 
had a simple 
request to 
make. It was 
necessary for 
him to go 
out and look after the car, and he thought 
John wouldn't mind driving him over. 
*' I'll come at once/' answered Bainbridge, 
He dressed and, without a word to his 
wife j hurried to the barn, There was some- 
thing so peculiar about his expression that 
she followed him uneasily. Still, she didn't 
dare to question him, and, as he offered no 
word of explanation, she merely stood in the 
corner and looked on. He harnessed Nellie 
without grooming her, and then into the rear 
of the conveyance piled first what was left of 
the bag of oats, then the blanket, the halter, 
the new carriage- jack, the sponge, the can of 
grease, the peck measure, the curry-comb and 
brush, and the barn-shovel. Then he went to 
the loft and tumbled down the stairs half a 
bale of hay which he had just bought. He 
nearly broke his bark lifting this into 
the front seat. 

4 * John," exclaimed his wife, "have 
you gone crazy ? " 

*' See anything more ? " he in- 

M But, John " 

He shoved open the barn door and 
took his seat beside the bale of hay. 
He brought the reins down sharply 

Vol k!«l -24. 

across the flanks 
of the astonished 
animal and put 
her on a run up 
the hill to Ark- 
wright's house. 
The latter, at this 
strange sight, 
came running -out, 
with his wife at 
his heels, 

''Here," said 
Bainbridge, "take 
her ! Take her 
quick ! And listen, 
Arkwright, if ever 
you try to give 
her to me again, 
141 — I 11 shoot 
her ! " 
"Which," as 
Mrs. Arkwright observed, later, to her hus- 
band, " is all the thanks you get for giving 
people anything/' 

But it's an ill wind indeed 
that doesn't blow a man 
some good. The incident 
developed John's artistic in- 
stinct. This was proved when 


he put a 
couple more 
windows in 
the barn, par- 
titioned it off 
roughly into rooms, 
let his house, and 
took up his residence 
in the studio. Confi- 
de n t ial 1 y , ho we ve r , 
he hopes within a 
couple of years to be 

IOHS/ EXCLAIMED HiS u r . * u™k 

lvi voftrigml fraM e *° ™ ve back 
1«^RSITYOF^Ol^ ousc ' 





Fnrtti a Pkoint^rmf^ fry 



Illustrated oy Tom AVilkinson. 


[|HERE is no game like golf 
cither for humour or strange 
occurrences. It easily beats 
all others. The golfer's fund 
of stories j humorous and 
strange, is far bigger than 
that of the player of any other 
game, A whole season of football or cricket 
or tennis or hockey will produce scarcely as 
much of this nature as a single week of golf. 
Though it must be left to the analysts to 
determine exactly the reason why, it is obvious 
that the peculiarities of the golf -ball, of the 
clubs, and of the players behind the two 
— especially the players — have much to do 
with it. 

The ball is an imp of mischief, full of fan- 
tastic as well as dirty tricks, and capricious as a 
woman. One day it will be all smiles and kind 
favours; your round of the links will be un- 
troubled by anything but good fortune, and 
you will hole out in a flatteringly small 
number of strokes. The next day you will 
be vainly endeavouring to control a little while 
devil, who delights in darting ofl into bunkers, 
in dodging the hole, and in other kinds of 

Take just one instance from each of these 
moods. In a medal round at Felixstowe 
many years ago a player pushed his third 
shot far out to the right of the first hole. The 


ball alighted on the roof of a hut, rolled down 
on the near side, and fell on to a heap of 
bricks that extended towards the green. 
Instead of settling down among these bricks, 
the ball commenced to dance from brick to 
brick, and finally, with a huge hop, reached 
the green and lay stone-dead, the player 
getting a four where he deserved nothing better 
than a seven. Lucky player ! Kind little ball ! 

But in the following incident the ball is 
seen in its opposite character, A player had 
to drive over a plantation about sixty yards 
from the tee. He hit a clean but too low a 
shot, losing sight of the ball after it had gone 
a little way. The next thing he was conscious 
of, and the last for some time to come, w T as a 
violent blow in the eye which knocked him flat 
and put an end to his golf for several months. 
The ball had hit a tree-trunk right in the 
middle and rebounded the sixty yards. 
Unlucky player ! Cruel little ball ! 

If the Oxford don's definition of golf- 
namely, " putting little balls into little hole:, 
wifh instruments very ill-adapted to the pur- 
pose " — is true j then it is not difficult to under- 
stand why the clubs are sometimes respon- 
sible for the strange things that happen at 

As for the players— well, they are very 
human, and no other explanation is necessary. 

And there seems to be no end to the strange 
Original from 






things that may happen at golf. Something 
entirely new and hitherto unheard-of is fre- 
quently occurring. Thus, the other day, on 
a North London course., two balls driven 
from opposite directions collided in mid-air 
So far as I know, this has never happened 

Personally I have been concerned in several 
curious incidents on the golf-course, while I 
have seen a good num- 
ber befall other players, 

At Rom ford j once, 
while I was starting to 
swing back an iron club 
a player to another hole 
pulled his shot and his 
gutty ball struck the 
green heart shaft of rny 
club and split it* 

During one of the 
championships at M air- 
field my cleek - shaft 
broke j the head of the 
club flying away to a 
considerable distance. 
Needless to say, I never 
recovered the head ! 

Broken heads of clubs 
sometimes fly to an 
amazing distance. A 
hundred yards down the 
middle of the course is 
what some players say 
thev have done. 

Playing in an 
Edinburgh tourna- 
ment on one occa- 
sion, I got into a 
whin-bush. In 
getting out I hit 
the ball too clean, 
and it struck a 
spectator twenty 
yards beyond the 
hole, rebounding 
thence and coming 
to rest within five 
yards of the pin. 

Much the same 
kind of good for- 
tune was enjoyed 
by Vardon on one 
occasion when I 
was playing 
against him. He 
played rather too 
strongly out of a 
bunker, his ball 
going amongst the 
spectators* One of them kicked the ball 
back up the slope of the green, and another 
of them kicked it downhill again. As the 
ball had never been at rest it had to be 
accepted as a rub of the green, and Vardon 
was benefited by being ten yards or so nearer 
the hole than he would have been had not 
the spectators indulged in this little game of 



by Goosle 

Original from 



Spectators frequently contribute in this 
and other ways to the variety of golf. Play- 
ing in a tournament in the South of France, 
J m H. Taylor holed out in one, and it was 
some time before the spectators advised him 
where the ball lay, being under the impres- 
sion that it was an everyday occurrence ! 

Mention of a hole in one recalls the occa- 
sion when I was the victim of a player who 
holed out in nothing f I was playing the best 
ball of two players and conceding a stroke 
at a hole where they had the honour, and one 
of them holed her tee shot t It was useless 
for me to play my tee shot, as even had I 
holed it I should still have lost the hole, 

Instances of balls landing in the pockets 
of players and spectators in front , either with 
or without their knowledge, are comparatively 
common- Quite the most extraordinary 
incident of this kind occurred on the Elie and 
Earlsferry links many years ago, before 
ladies played golf and while they still affected 
the crinoline and the chignon. The Rev, 
A, B, Campbell, of Markinch, a well-known 
Fife golfer, was playing round the links, 
accompanied by his daughter. A following 
player drove into them, Miss Campbell being 


struck by the ball, which, however, could not, 
despite a careful hunt all round, be found any- 
where. Its whereabouts remained a mystery 
until, on retiring to rest that night, the lady 
discovered it embedded in her hair. 
Here is another unique incident from the 

Digitized by G< 

same links and out of the hoary past, in 
which the late Provost Matheson, of Dun- 
fermJine, and the late Mr. Mar tin } of Liverpool, 
were the principals. A skimming brassy 
shot from the opposite direction hit the 
Provost a tremendous crack on the shin-bone. 
In his surprise and pain he brandished the 
slirk which he always carried on the links 
and struck his opponent, Mr, Martin, a severe 
blow on the nose. A dual accident of such 
a kind was extraordinary enough ; but the 
most extraordinary part was to come. This 
blow on the nose was a blessing in disguise ; 
it had the effect of relieving a nasty abscess 
and saving an- impending visit to the surgeon. 
Golf stories are not easy to tabulate. 
They must be jotted down more or less as 
they come. 

My record drive of three hundred and 
ninety-six yards was made at the fifteenth 
hole at Walton Heath, when the ground was 
frozen hard and a hurricane blowing. 

I did an unusual thing at Walton Heath 
once , at the eighth. I played my ball out ot a 
bunker ; it dropped straight into the hole 
and stayed there, 

On another occasion my opponent 

threatened to 
twist my neck if 
I holed out from 
some cart-ruts at 
the third hole at 
Walton Heath. 1 
actually suc- 
ceeded in holing 
out from this very 
unpromising lie. 
My opponent, 
however, failed to 
carry out his 

A most amusing 
incident con- 
nected with a 
" threat " is told 
about a certain 
chief constable in 
Scotland, a genial 
giant, six feet high 
and twenty stone 
in weight, a man 
as be ne vol e n t as he 
was big. He was 
walking about the links of the club to which 
he be longed f most of the other players having 
gone off j when a little man, a visitor, appeared 
with his clubs. As he did not seem likely to 
get a game, the chief constable offered *to play 

him. The little man inquired his handicap. 
Original from ^ r7 




" yeYe 

and was told it was " just aboot scratch." 
" Then you must give mi 1 a stroke a hole/' 
he replied. The chief agreed, and they started 
off- The little man made no mistakes what- 
ever, and on the eighth green the big man 
was eight down. 

" Hon/' growled the giant , 
dommed fraud ; 
Tve a good mind to 
take my niblick to 
ye." Much to the 
chief's surprise, the 
little man took him 
seriously and 
bolted , never stop- 
ping till he reached 
his hotel and safety. 

The most curious 
shot I ever saw at 
golf was a tee shot 
which struck the 
player who was 
making it on his 
tight foot ! 

Another tee shot, 
hardly less curious , 
occurred on a noted 
West of England 
course, A very keen 
foursome was in pro- 
gress, there being 
considerable feeling 
on both sides and 
not a little money on the mat en. At a certain 
hob one of the players sliced his tee shot so 
badly as to strike one of his opponents, who 
was standing to the right of the tee and a 
little in front of it. The ball struck him full 
on the solar plexus, and down he went, As 
he lay writhing in pain on the ground the 
player who had done the damage turned 
to him, but instead of apologizing and show- 
ing concern for his injuries, he said, with a 
Satanic smile on his face, " It's our hole," 

A player on a Gloucestershire course had 
a most amazing experience. In playing a 
shot his ball hit a gate-post some five-and- 
twenty yards in front of him. Rebounding, 
it struck him on the pocket of his coat and 
set fire to a box of matches* Before he 
became aware of the fact most of that side 
of his coat was burnt out. 

Foursomes generally manage to furnish 
some unusual incident, the opportunity being, 
as it were, doubled* 

In a foursome at Walton Heath in which 
I was engaged, our opponents, one of whom 
was a famous professional, put their ball 
into a bush. The professional, unwilling to 

lose the hole, asked his partner if he had a 
club he did not mind getting broken. On 
receiving one ? he successfully played the 
stroke and broke the club. 

An amusing incident once occurred in a 
professional foursome at St. Andrews, One 
of the players sliced on to the railway, anc 



his partner asked for the loan of some special 
club to play the shot, The former, however, 
walked over to have a look at the ball, and, 
seeing the awful place in which it lay, calmly 
replied, " Ye just break one of your own 
clubs.' 1 

The public courses round London and 
Edinburgh, and anywhere else, too, doubtless 
witness more odd incidents and accidents 
than private clubs. 

In the early days of the Braid Hills course 
it was the custom for players on crowded days 
to tee up their balls on the first tee in readiness 
for their start* Naturally, such an unscien- 
tific method led to heated arguments as to 
whose turn came next. This first tee, it 
should be mentioned, had a very small area, 
and was of the plateau type, with dense whin- 
bushes around and below it. On a certain 
Saturday afternoon the crowd of waiting 
players was larger than usual, and the tee a 
serried mass of tee 'd-upballs. A player carefully 
picked his way on to the tee, found a vacant 
space for his feet, and addressed his ball. 
With the action of a man using a scythe, he 
took his club back, and with the same action 






- *: • ■ « 



brought it forward. His own ball he missed 
altogether, but succeeded in sweeping quite 
a number of other balls off the tee into the 
whin-bushes. Half an hour later he could 
still be seen grovelling on hands and knees 
among the whin-bushes, vainly looking for 
other people's balls. 

What amazes one most about golf on public 
commons, such as Wimbledon, is that so few 
accidents occur to pedestrians. They wander 
about seemingly in blissful ignorance that a 
golf-ball is a dangerous little thing. If they 
knew how hard it was and how r swiftly it 
flies from the club — at the rate, it is com- 
puted, of three hundred miles an hour — they 
might not feel so comfortable in its neigh- 
bourhood* But perhaps it is just as well they 
don't know, May a special Providence con- 
tinue to watch over them and the nurse- 
maids and children who are the special bane 
of golfers on common courses ! 

Now atod then accidents do occur^ and a 
player tells how he watched a drive of his 
lengthen out fifty yards and more beyond his 
normal distance and light straight upon the 
head of an infant in arms. He ran forward 
in much apprehension, expecting to find 
something very like a corpse ; but, to his 
unbounded astonishment and relief, the baby 
was unhurt, and its mother kinonmt that any 
special danger had threatened it. The ball 
had fallen upon that wonderful woollen head- 
gear affected by small babies, and had harm- 
lessly dropped to the ground. 

Fatal accidents on the golf links, though not 
unknown, are happily very rare. But if the 
golf -bail has been sparing of human life, it has 

by Google 

done considerable destruction in the animal 
kingdom. Quite a common curiosity of golf 
clubs is a stuffed bird killed by a golf-ball on 
the links, and hung up in the club - house 
as a curio. 

All manner of birds, from seagulls to snipe, 
have met their fate in this fashion. Possibly 
the commonest of kills is the lark. One of 
the most extraordinary of animal casualties 
occurred on a Scottish links. A player's ball 
dropped straight on to a couple of weasels 
engaged in mortal combat, and saved them 
any further trouble in the matter. 

A clergyman who played his golf on an 
inland country course, where caddies were 
scarce and artificial tees the common practice^ 
had trained his spaniel to pick up the tee — a 
brown rubber disc — after he had driven and 
carry it to the next teeing ground. The 
faithful dog for a long time performed this 
tusk without miss or mistake. One day, 
however, in a moment of canine aberration, 
he moved forward to pick up the tee as his 
master w-as in the act of driving. The latter 
did not observe the movement in time, and 
the poor dog received a fatal blow on the 

But sometimes the animal kingdom avenges 
itself on the golfer and his implements. 
Playing in India recently, a lady hit her ball 
into the neighbourhood of some crows. 
Spying a white and unfamiliar object drop- 
ping from the skies, and hoping it might 
prove to be of an edible nature, one of the 
birds hopped down, seized the ball in its beak, 
and flew away, chased by the frantic player, 
shouting and brandishing her club. 

Original from 




Translated ty Etkel Christian, 
" Illustrated by Leon Fauret. 

Paul Bourget, one of the most celebrated French poets and authofs, is a 
member of the Legion of Honour and, what is perhaps a still greater 
distinction, one of the Forty Immortals who constitute that exclusive 
institution, the French Academy. He has been described as the founder 
of the psychological school of fiction, and his works are remarkable for 
their subtle analysis of the working of the human emotions, while his 
studies of women stand apart from those of any other writer. The 
following story is an excellent example of M. Bourget's work, while it is 
based upon a most original and striking incident which has the rare merit 
of providing a new sensation in fiction. 

HAT strikes you as strange ," 
said the Master of d'Hablo- 
ville, " that square bed of 
nettles in this French flower- 
garden ? We keep it there, 
too, for a very strange 
reason. The story is a 
dramatic qpg, which I can only tell you badly ; 
but as youlbve a little this ancient building, 
these venerable beeches, this terrace over- 
looking the valley of the Orne, it would, per- 
haps, give you pleasure to know how this 
small country seat escaped destruction under 
the Terror. We keep in our charter-room — 
a very modest little charter-room — an account 
of this adventure, written by my great-grand- 
aunt, who was herself the heroine of it. You 
can read it through in a quarter of an hour 
after tea, and still have time to reach Bagnoles 

for dinner. But Habloville will afterwards be 
a more living thing to you, and that is what 
I desire. We are not dukes or peers. Our 
family were never distinguished, either during 
the ancien rlgime or since, but there have 
always been Barrois d'Habloville here for 
the last three hundred years. Here I was 
born. Here I was married. Here I brought 
up my children. Here I hope to die. You 
can imagine what those bricks and stones 
mean to me." 

With a gesture he indicated the simple 
fa?ade, dating from Louis XIII. It has no 
ornamentation save a stone bossage, standing 
out grey against the deep red-brick back- 
ground. But it has a charm all its own. This 
old place, with its two turrets, its long, low 
slate roofs, its great trees framing the garden, 
and its queer partem: of nettles ; to this 




must be added the river flowing below the 
garden, and the master of the house himself, 
to make the picture complete. 

M. d'Habloville is an old soldier, retired 
with the rank of Captain, having served in 
Tonquin ; the yellow ribbon of the military 
medals on his breast tell with what distinc- 
tion. Great family sorrows — his wife and 
three daughters dying within a short period 
of each other — have seared his thin, lined 
face. At fifty-five his hair is snow-white, 
but he holds himself very straight and his 
blue eyes have a look of pride that suits the 
owner of this fine old place. Having no 
successor but a nephew who does not bear his 
name, he would willingly leave it to the State 
— on the condition that everything remained 
untouched, unaltered — following the prece- 
dent of many illustrious persons, were he not 
a slave to the idea of " the good of the family.' ' 
In this portrait I am trying to paint the man 
as I see him — his traits, his gestures, his 
attitude. When his hand, with its knotted 
veins, raises the gold-topped Malacca-cane to 
point out a hedge of old yoke-elms, the 
winding of the river, or the angle of a wall, 
one is almost astonished at not seeing a frill 
of lace fall back from his withered wrist, an 
eighteenth-century costume clothing the frail, 
upright old body, and a perruque crowning the 
lofty brow. Clothe him thus and you have 
before you one of those simple, unostentatious 
noblemen, such as one might imagine Mira- 
beau's steward, devoted and self-sacrificing in 
anything touching their race. Perhaps the 
charm that men of this type exercise over 
me — so perfectly in harmony with themselves 
— added to the impression left on my mind 
by the few notes written long ago by Mile. 
Celenie Barrois d'Habloville. Perhaps the 
place where I read these confidences — a tiny 
round panelled closet, high up in a turret — 
fitted only too well the scenes evoked by 
those yellowing pages which my host took, 
with an almost devout air, from a massive 
mahogany chest bearing his coat of arms. 

Whatever the cause, the story affected me 
so strongly that I begged leave to copy it. 
Permission was granted, and here it is, trans- 
scribed just as it was written down, except, 
it must be confessed, for some corrections in 
spelling. The late Mile. Celenie had all the 
traditions of the ancien rtgime — even that of 
writing as she pronounced. Books were less 
familiar to her than a riding-whip. 


August 10th , 1794. 
The anniversary of a terrible day, but one 

Digitized byV^i 

which I shall look upon as a day of deliver- 
ance. On July 27th the tyrant Robespierre 
was guillotined at Paris, a sign that every- 
thing was changed. The messenger who 
brought me Cauvin's note telling me this news 
no longer called me citoyenne in talking to 
my servant — it was once more " Mademoi- 
selle." Cauvin told me in this note that he 
was leaving to rejoin the army. He would 
not see me again ; he asked my pardon for 
the past. 

What a strange man ! If anyone had told 
me three weeks ago that I should ever 
speak his name with any emotion except 
fear or horror I should not have believed it. 
He has saved me, and with me this chateau, 
these lands, all that I hold dear and for love 
of which I refused to emigrate with my 
brother. He has saved me. The story of 
the ehormous difficulty he had to contend 
with, and all the happenings of those days, I 
want to write down while they are fresh in 
my memory. And this against the day when 
the King comes back and justice is done. 
This man must not be punished. He has 
been a Jacobin. He has committed crimes, I 
am sure ; but I have seen him under the 
influence of a grand and honourable emotion 
which wipes them all out. 

When he came back to the village, six- 
weeks ago, I knew at once that something was 
going to happen. I will write down here the 
whole truth, which I have not told my brother. 
How could I tell him ? What would he have 
thought had he known that Cauvin, a mere 
country yokel, the son of a domestic, sent to 
a Jesuit school by the charity of our parents, 
had dared to tell me he loved me ? Philippe 
would have said to me : " You must have 
flirted with him— led him on ! " I had only 
been foolish. In the months before the 
States-General a breath of folly had blown 
upon us all. This young man had come back 
from Paris with the prestige of examinations 
brilliantly passed. Everyone spoke of him 
as a future member of the Cabinet. Every- 
one lauded him. He professed sentiments 
which seemed to me splendidly unselfish. I 
was twenty-five, an age at which a girl — 
especially an orphan keeping house for an 
unmarried brother — could take to herself 
the independence of a young married woman. 
To talk with Cauvin amused me. On several 
occasions I met him while I was out riding, 
and he, being on horseback too — he w r as 
going round among the people preparatory 
to his election — he would accompany me ; 
at first for a few minutes only, then for a 
longer tiniiejqjf-igfY^ attached any importance 




to it* Before God Who sees me write 
these lines I swear I was as astonished as 1 
was shocked when he spoke to me as he did. 
This was on the day after he had been nomi- 
nated deputy to that fatal Assembly which 
was to be the Constituent Assembly* I was 
letting my horse gallop at his will under the 
great trees of the forest of Rabodanges, as T 

replied in the only way I could, he caught 
my arm, repeating : — 

t£ Yes , I love you. I love you, I knew 
you would not marry me. You despise me 
because you are of noble birth and I am only 
a peasant. For fifteen years I have loved 
you. It was for you that I worked ; for you 
that I have had myself nominated deputy. 


thought of the States-General and of the era 
of happiness and prosperity it was to inaugu- 
rate in France, when suddenly 1 saw Cauvin 
emerge from a ride at right angles to me. 
Clearly he had been watching for me. He 
brought his horse beside me and we rode on. 
I congratulated him on his success, He was 
silent. He looked so pale that I asked if he 
felt ill* Then he began to speak those words 
which, even to-day, I can hardly believe he 
really spoke — and that I really listened to 
them. But, yes, I heard them ; I can hear 
them still- I see his eyes when, having 

Vol. «lviL-2i. 

Look at me — look well — and remember what 
I say. You shall be mine ! " 

I looked at him as he bid me, to prove to 
him that I was not frightened, but the savage, 
masterful look on his face raised a storm of 
indignation in me, and I tried to disengage 

As his hold on my arm only tightened, 
I struck him across the face with my 
riding-whip, with such violence that the 
pain made him loose his hold. I galloped 
away. He followed. Fortunately a d'Hablo- 

ville TwwHfrt -taaftfflKfr " a c * uvin - 



After a quarter of an hour's hard riding I no 
longer heard the beat of his horse's hoofs 
behind me. I got safely back to the ch&teau, 
and should, I suppose, have told the whole 
affair to my brother, but I was afraid of a 
scandal. It would be time enough to speak, 
I thought, if Cauvin showed he had not 
profited by the lesson I had given him ; it 
had been sharp, but he deserved it. 

A few days later he left for Paris. His first 
votes threw my brother into such a rage that 
I thought it best not to add fuel to the fire. 
And then the dreadful happenings began ; the 
Terror was upon us; Our friends and neigh- 
bours were emigrating, and I begged Philippe 
to quit France too. He only decided to do 
this when the princes began to raise an army 
of nobles and gentlemen. It was settled that 
I should not leave, but should stay at home 
and try to take care of the chSteau and estate. 

Had Cauvin lived in our part of the country 
should I have had the courage to remain ? 
But he did not. The Constituent Assembly 
over, he took up at Paris his profession as 
doctor, and later I heard that he had joined 
Dumouriez's army as surgeon, and in that 
capacity had assisted at Valmy and at 
Jemmapes. I said to myself, " He has for- 
gotten me." I saw proof of this in the fact 
that his relations, an uncle and two cousins, 
living at d'Habloville, left us at the chateau 
in peace. And this while crime was succeed- 
ing crime in France. The assassination of the 
Queen followed the assassination of the King. 
Every day I heard of arrests, of confiscations, 
and, but for a few petty annoyances, such 
as cutting down our trees, billeting tax- 
gatherers on me, calling me citoyenne, I was 
left undisturbed. The farmers no longer 
paid rent, it is true, but the farms still re- 
mained ours. My brother in his letters, 
written from the camp at Conde, in vain urged 
me anxiously to fly the country ; all seemed 
so quiet and peaceful in this little corner of 
Normandy that I had ceased to feel any fear. 

But fear came to me, dreadful fear, on the 
14th of July last — another sinister anniversary 
— when old Jacques, my servant, came to me 
and said : — 

" M. Cauvin is without, and wishes to speak 
with mademoiselle. " 

44 M. Cauvin, the doctor ? " 

" Oh, he is an officer now, with top-boots, 
feathers, and a sword. It seems he has been 
wounded. He arrived here yesterday." 

44 Very well. Show him in." 

Cauvin it was, in a uniform indeed suffi- 
ciently imposing to deceive the rustic Jacques 
— that of a surgeon in the Sambre-et-Meuse 

army. A bullet-wound, received while attend- 
ing the wounded during a battle near the 
Rhine, had caused him to be sent home on 
sick leave. This I heard later, for now he 
had not come to speak of himself. He had 
hardly entered when he said : — 

44 Mademoiselle, I have come to save you." 

" From what, monsieur ? " I replied. 

At the sight of his lowering face and burn- 
ing eyes I knew I had to deal with the man 
of Rabodanges Forest. Neither the fever of 
Revolution nor the fever of War had changed 
him. He still loved me. He still desired me. 
I felt this with the same shrinking, the same 
horror, as before, and as before I pitted my 
will against his. 

44 From yourself," he replied. " You who 
receive letters from a traitor, a conspirator, 
from one who bears arms against his native 
land ; you, who write to this " 

u Are you speaking of M. d'Habloville ? " 

44 I am speaking of the hnigri d'Hablo- 

44 Leave this house ! " I cried, indignantly. 
44 You have already insulted the daughter of 
your benefactor. To-day you insult his son, 
and under his roof. Go ! " 

44 1 will not go. Your letters have been 
intercepted ; do you understand what that 
means ? They are in hands that can hurt 
you ; do you understand that ? Look ! Do 
you recognize this ? " 

He held out a sheet of paper, which I recog- 
nized with a terror that froze my blood. \\ 
was my last letter to Philippe. 

44 And this ? " he continued. 

This time it was my brother's writing 
which I instantly recognized on the paper 
he held out. My brother and I had communi- 
cated through a channel which we thought 
quite safe — a little peddling watchmaker of 
Abencon, named Dubois. Had he betrayed 
us ? Or had he been betrayed ? 

44 Dubois has been arrested," went on 
Cauvin, as though he read my thoughts. 44 He 
entrusted his papers to his wife. She got 
frightened and gave them to my cousin, 
Pierre, who, in his turn, took fright and 
brought them to me at Paris, where he knew 
I was recovering from my wound. Do you 
still tell me to go ? " 

44 Go!" I repeated. 44 Go ! " All my 
strength came back to me at the menace in 
those last words of his. 44 Those papers are 
not yours. If you keep them — it is a theft." 

44 Indeed, no, they are not mine," he sneered. 
44 It is to Justice they belong." 

44 Well ! . Give them up, then ! " 

I crossed my arms and looked him straight 


the Patch ol> nettles. 


nyGwgkk!- . — uRfflSflK, 




in the face, defying him as I had done three 
years before in the forest. This time I had 
no whip with which to lash his face. For a 
moment words failed me. Then I added : — 

" All revolutionaries — all * blues ' — are 
thieves and assassins. You are a * blue.' Do 
your worst ! " 

" And the * whites ' — what are they ? " he 
cried. " Those who conspire with foreigners 
against the nation ? And you, their accom- 
plice, what are you ? But you don't know. 
You don't understand. They have lied to you. 
The proof that you are a patriot, in spite of 
your caste, in spite of all, is that you have not 
quitted France ; you stand by her. Well ! 
Be what you like ! I love you. I shall 
always love you. You have insulted me, 
struck me. But I love you. You belong to 
the class I hate, the detestable aristocrats, 
every one of whom I would send to the scaf- 
fold. But I love you. If you have been left 
here in peace, cannot you guess to whom you 
owe it ? I found the means to protect you, 
first from the Assembly, then from the army. 
But now that is finished. You remember 
what I once said : You shall be mine. I 
want you. I will have you. Oh ! " he con- 
tinued with a bitter smile, as I recoiled from 
him, " you need not fear. It is from yourself 
that I will take you. Of your own free will." 

Then, with a sudden change, he spoke im- 
periously, in a cold, hard voice. 

" The chateau is surrounded. Do not try 
to escape. I no longer ask you to be my wife, 
to marry me. You would say c Yes ' to-day 
and * No > to-morrow. At midnight I will 
pass in front of your windows. If there are 
lights in them, that will mean that you have 
left the side door open — the little door into 
the kitchen garden ; then I will come up. I 
will wait until two o'clock. If at that hour 
no light has appeared these letters will be in 
the hands of the authorities at dawn and you 
will be arrested to-morrow." 

" Take them there at once, then," I said, 
simply. And then added, banteringly, " The 
nights in Normandy are cold, even in 
summer. You are only just recovered from 
a wound. Being a doctor, you know what 
pneumonia is. I wouldn't take the risk, if I 
were you." 

Writing now, I cannot think how I had the 
courage to speak so lightly. But at all costs 
I had to humiliate the man at this moment 
when he was bringing this hideous pressure 
to bear on me, and some instinct told me the 
surest means to this end was to laugh in his 
face. My sarcasm hit the mark. He became 
livid, turned on his heel, and left me. As soon 

as he had left the room I fell back on a sofa ; 
my heart was beating so violently that it 
seemed as though it must break through my 
breast, and I was trembling all over. As I 
have taken up my pen to write the whole 
truth, why should I hide the fact that I broke 
down and wept ? I cried and cried like a 
child, like a coward. A vision of the guillo- 
tine was before my eyes. I could feel the 
chill of the blade on my neck. My flesh crept 
with horror. All the youth in me revolted 
so passionately from the thought that I was 
able to calm myself and set about trying to 
plan a way out. What could I do ? How 
could I escape ? 

It was now noon. I had twelve hours 
before me. I went to the window ; a peasant 
stood on guard in front of the great entrance 
gate ; from a window which overlooked the 
kitchen garden I saw another peasant, guard- 
ing the little side door of which Cauvin had 
spoken. Cauvin had warned me. These 
men were his. I was caught. Apart from 
me, too, this meant the seizing of the chateau 
and estates by the nation, the loss of all we 
possessed. Should I kill myself ? I thought 
of that, too. But the afterwards ? There 
was, I knew, another world, and, for those 
who commit suicide, hell. Should I go to 
Cauvin and beg for mercy — try to melt him 
to pity ? I thought of that, too. But 
what was the use ? To one way only I gave 
no single thought — I can take that credit to 
myself — to save my life by accepting Cauvin's 
ignoble bargain. I threw myself on my knees 
and begged God's mercy, and with all my heart 
said St. Elizabeth's beautiful prayer : " What 
will happen to me to-day, my God ? I know 
not. But this I know, that nothing can 
happen to me which Thou hast not foreseen, 
ordered, and determined from all eternity. 
That is enough for me, my God, that is 
enough ! " 

When I rose my sacrifice was made. I was 
not only consoled, but calm and resolute. 
First, I must fulfil my duty towards those 
who had been so faithful these three years. 
It must not happen that, when the soldiers 
came to arrest me, they should find any docu- 
ments compromising a single one of my 
servants or neighbours. To light "a fire in any 
of the rooms at this time of year was to risk 
giving the alarm. But there remained the 
kitchen hearth. After lunch, to which I did 
but small justice — though for my people's 
sake I had to comport myself outwardly as 
on other days — I sent the woman who pre- 
pared my meals to the village with enough 
errands to ensure her absence for a couple 






of hours, thus giving me time, with old 
Jacques's help, to burn all the papers and 
bundles of letters which might be incriminat- 
ing : my brother's letters first, then others, 
then notes and instructions written for my 
guidance, then receipts which might draw 
attention to this one or that. This business 
finished, I carried down to the cellar, again 
with Jacques's help, the little chest con- 
taining the family jewels. This we buried. 
I then divided what money I had into three 
parts : a small sum to take with me to 
prison, a larger one which I entrusted to 
Jacques to send to my brother if he could 
find a way, and a third which he was to dis- 
tribute among the other servants after my 
arrest. I simply told him this was imminent, 
without giving any details. 

" It is that young fellow Cauvin who has 
warned you, mademoiselle," he said to me. 
" At one time I thought him a rascal, but he 
hasn't a bad heart, mademoiselle, I am sure. 
He takes after his father, who was so brave." 

I shall always believe that I owe my safety 
to the firm resolve I had made, kneeling before 
my crucifix, to forgive all those who perse- 
cuted me. But for that vow I should have 
talked to Jacques, and told him of this man's 
vile proposal, and on the morrow nothing 
would have happened as it did. For Jacques 
would never have allowed him to enter the 
chateau, would not have spoken with him, 
would not have brought him to my door. 

But I am going too fast ; I must go back 
to that day of preparation. 

Well, by six o'clock everything was in 
order. The Revolutionists could come. At 
half-past six I supped. At nine, after taking 
a final survey of the house and saying my 
prayers, I went to bed, and, unbelievable as 
it may seem, I slept. A loud rapping on 
the door awoke me. It was broad daylight. 

" It is they already ! " I told myself, shaken 
wide awake by fear. My heart beat furiously 
as I called out : " Who is there ? " 

" Open, mademoiselle ; open quickly ! " 
whispered a beseeching voice — Jacques's 
voice. " It is a matter of life and death ! " 

I jumped out of bed, slipped on a dressing- 
gown, knotted up my hair, and, with bare 
feet thrust into slippers, I opened the door. 
Cauvin was there with Jacques. Hastily I 
drew back 

"You here! You !" I cried. "You have 
dared ! Take that man away, Jacques ! 
Don't let him in ! He has lied to you. It is 
he who denounced me. He is a blackguard. 
He must not come in. If he does " I 

seized a loaded pistol which I always kept 

by V- iOOV? 

by me at night. " If he crosses this threshold 
I will kill him." 

" You did that — you, Cauvin, your father's 
son ? " cried Jacques, throwing himself on 

" Yes," the man replied. " I have de- 
nounced her, Jacques, it is true ; I come 
straight from Falaise, where I gave up her 
letters and M. Philippe's." In this moment 
of mental upheaval the name used in child- 
hood came to his lips. " But it is also true 
that immediately I had done it I was horrified" 
at my act. I have ridden a horse to death to 
get back here in time to save her. By my 
father's sacred memory, Jacques, I swear I 
have come to save her. Let me pass — I must 
speak to her. She must listen to me." 

He turned to me. 

" Can you not see, mademoiselle, I am 
suffering the torture of the damned ? They 
will be here in an hour — less, perhaps — and 
if they take you it means death. I have been 
mad ! But to see you arrested, condemned ! 

To see you " Before his eyes, too, there 

swam a vision of the guillotine. " No ! No ! 
No ! " he cried, in a frenzy. " It shall not 
be ! I ask nothing of you, mademoiselle — 
nothing but leave to save you." 

My composure had returned to me. I 
listened to the man, and felt he was sincere 
in his repentance, as he had been in his threats 
and madness. For all that I did not lay aside 
the pistol. Jacques, standing between us 
and still holding Cauvin, turned to see if I had 
changed my mind. I thought of my brother, 
of our home, and said to myself : " It is the 
only chance," and then, aloud : — 

" You can no longer save me." 

" I can," he replied, in an utterly changed 
voice. It was enough for him that I had 
spoken to him in a tone no longer scornful. 
He went on : " Have you the courage to 
suffer pain — great pain ? " 

" I thought I had proved that," I replied. 

" Mentally, yes. But physically, in your 
flesh, in your blood ? Anyway, if you have not 
the courage, Jacques and I must force you. 
Take these gloves, Jacques " — he pulled off 
his gauntletted gloves — " and put them on ; 
then go into the park and gather an armful 
of big nettles, the biggest and leafiest you 
can find. But be quick — very quick ! " 
Then, as the other did not budge, he turned 
to me. " Mademoiselle, tell him to go. I 
cannot go myself ; if I were seen all would be 
lost ! " Then, savagely, " My God ! you 
don't believe in me ! I deserve it ! But this 
is awful ! " 

" Do as monsieur says," I told Jacques. 




" Thank you, ' Cauvin said, earnestly. 

Jacques obeyed. The sound of his steps 
faded in the distance. I was alone with this 
man who loved me, who had told me so, and 
who had denounced me that very morning 
in his fury at not winning me ; and yet, inex- 
plicable though it is, I was sure that now he 
would say no smallest word to offend me. 
He paced up and down the room, casting a 
passionate look at me every now and then, 
in which I could read remorse at the wrong 
he had done me. This passion no longer 
terrified me. It was the guarantee of his 
sincerity. What were the means he was going 
to use to save me which were so terribly pain- 
ful that he warned me of it as of a danger ? 
I guessed at his idea, though I would not 
question him. How could I speak without 
thanking him — and he had betrayed me ; 
without reproaching him — and he was risking 
the scaffold for me ? If his presence in the 
chateau and the warning he had given me 
were discovered, that meant the end of all for 
him. This silent and tragic encounter did 
not last long. Jacques returned with his 
bundle of nettles. 

" Get into bed, mademoiselle ," said Cauvin. 
" Keep the gloves on, Jacques. Where can 
I find a cloth, mademoiselle, to wrap round 
my hands ? We must beat you with these 
nettles. You understand, Jacques ; you 
must beat, not rub, so that there is an erup- 
tion all over." 

" Leave me," I said. " I will beat myself 
with the nettles. I have the strength." 

" You could not do it," he replied. " It 
will hurt you too much. And then your 
shoulders, your back ? At least let Jacques 
do it — and try to bear the pain." 

He went out of the room while my old 
servant and I carried out this singular pre- 
scription, the object of which was quite clear. 
Cauvin had not exaggerated. I do not 
believe there is in the world a torment com- 
parable to this flagellation by nettles. It is 
unspeakable agony. The venomous stings 
bite into one's skin and gnaw into one's flesh, 
one's blood, one's very bones. It is a veri- 
table hair-shirt of torture, passing over the 
flesh and under it, shooting through one in 
waves of pain and searching out every nerve to 
torture with a dreadful burning, piercing, 
stinging irritation, till one longs for death. 
When it was done I got back into bed. The 
blistering was so intense that I was already 
in a fever. 

Jacques called Cauvin. 

" Is this all right ? " I asked him, showing 
my hands and wrists covered with white 

Digitized by Gt ' 

blisters, round which the flesh flamed red 
and angry. 

" But your face ! " he cried, and, without 
taking any precaution to avoid stinging him- 
self, he seized a handful of nettles and lightly 
struck my forehead, cheeks, chin, and neck 
with them, saying, " Keep your eyes closed ! 
Be very careful to keep them tightly closed." 
After a few moments he continued : "In a 
few hours the pain will be over. You, 
Jacques, take away those nettles, all of them, 
mind ; see that you do not leave the smallest 
sprig on the sheets or carpet. Mademoiselle, 
you will remain in bed — and presently you 
will see ! " 

My God ! How I suffered ! The danger 
to be averted alone gave me courage to bear 
it. Cauvin left me, and with Jacques's help 
I tidied my bed. When the room was once 
more in order I rang for my maid. Her cry 
at sight of me proved that Cauvin 's pre- 
scription was effective. 

" Oh, mademoiselle ! What is the matter ? " 

" A touch of fever, I think." 

" But, mademoiselle, just look at yourself ! " 

She handed me a mirror, although obviously 
frightened to come near me. I was covered 
with round white blisters and bumps, which 
stood out on my deeply inflamed face. I had 
no time to give more than a glance in the 
mirror, for just then I heard from the court- 
yard below the trampling of horses' hoofs and 
the sound of men's voices. 

" Mademoiselle, it is the soldiers ! " cried 
my maid. " And Cauvin is leading them. 
Holy Mary ! who would have believed it ? 
They are come to arrest mademoiselle. But 
they cannot — they cannot — when they see 
how ill she is ! " 

She rushed from the room, and I heard her 
arguing vehemently in the corridor. 

" I swear to you that mademoiselle is ill. 
You cannot go in there ! You shall not ! 
You will not permit them, Monsieur Cauvin ? " 

" I will not permit the justice of the people 
to be made a mock of," replied Cauvin, 
brutally, in a hard voice — was it assumed on 
purpose ? " And, moreover, there is no 
Monsieur here, do you understand, citoyenne? 
There is one Citoyen Cauvin, Surgeon-Major 
in the Army of Sambre-et-Meuse, who is quite 
up to all these little tricks. If the citoyenne 
is ill, we will cure her. My colleague Guillo- 
tine has an infallible cure for illnesses of that 

From the ferocious burst of laughter which 
greeted this sally I could imagine the gestures 
which had accompanied Cauvin's allusion to 
the " National razor." Was he playing a 






part, or had this unstable nature changed to whom the idea of surprising an aristocrat 

again f and was he now against me ? I in bed was a delightful joke. I recalled the 

trembled at his entry into my room with his massacre of the Princ^ssc de Lamballe, and 

troop of ferocious farmagnolfs at his heels, froze wffch.lwfwi^ 



" Tut , tut ! " said Cauvin* coming to my 
bedside. u This doesn't look very promising. 
Stand back, you fellows ; you are not ex- 
perienced in illnesses. Your arm, citoyenne ! 
Pull back the sleeve that we may see how far 
this extends. Now the other — and the neck ! 
H'm ! Give me your wrist." He felt my 
pulse, " That is enough. My colleague 
Guillotine is unnecessary. It is the small- 
pox, and a virulent case ! You/' he said, 
turning to my maid, *' as you are so devoted 
to your mistress, you can remain, and you 
will st-r what your skin looks like in a few days. 
Now , left wheel, my boys — we will save ours I " 

He had played his role so well, with so much 
authority, so naturally, that the riff-raff 
Revolutionists were out of the room before 
he had finished speaking. 

He had kept his word. He had saved me. 
But for how long ? Since that fifteenth day 
of July— for it was the fifteenth — twenty-six 
days have passed, which I have spent in my 
room, not daring even to show myself at the 
window ^ waited upon solely by Jacques, for 
my servants would not come near him, much 
less me, for fear of the contagion. 

But it is over now— finished, Robespierre 
is dead. Cauvin tells me in his note that he 
has been able to destroy the documents 
against me and to suspend all investigations, 
I am saved. The lands and chateau are 
saved, thanks to him, and he has gone away. 
Shall I try to see him to thank him P 

No ; I will not write to him. I will not 
see him. It is better so. 

M Well ? " said the great grand-nephew of 
Mademoiselle Cel£nie, when I rejoined him 
after reading this story. " Can you under- 

stand my grand-aunt's sentiment in express- 
ing in her will the wish that there should 
always be a patch of nettles here to remind tk 
masters of d'Habloville of her danger awl 
of her rescuer ? " 

" And the man — this Cauvin — what hap- 
pened to him ? " 

■ " He became Chief-surgeon in the Grand 
Army and a Baron of the Empire, He did 
heroically, tending the wounded on the battle- 
field at Wagram. And look, since this story 
seems to interest you, here is his Cross of the 
Legion of Honour, which he bequeathed to 
my grand-aunt. Look on the back of the 
case. You will recognize her writing: "i 
remembrance of July 15th, T794. RJ.P. 

" Thev met again, then ? M 

" Never/' 

** And she never married ? *' 

M No/' 

li Nor he either ? ■» 

11 Nor he either/' 

What a commentary on that sentes^ 
t( It ts better so" underlined by MademoisA 
d'Habloville at the end of her tragic narrate, 
and what a mystery in the heart, of that 
proud old woman ? who as a girl knew kr^H 
loved by one who was an em* my to all i^ r 
dreams, her beliefs, her loyalty ! And sk 
had she not loved him, though forbidding 
herself to do so ? And then with what 
thoughts, in the evening of her days, 010 
she look at that patch of nettles trembling 
in the breeze which brought from the valley 
below the far-away, &ad ? monotonous sighuj? 
of the river. I remember the sound *y- 
I listened to it when I returned to d'Hablo- 
ville, and the sound moved me like the sighing 
of a woman's souL 






T is perhaps hard for a writer to 
Imagine that his life can be interest- 
ing to others, This may be the reason that 
most writers of reminiscences try to be 
amusing, and yet it may be that this 
endeavour of theirs comes from ihe revolt 
agaii^t Uit: hard realities of their own 
career, which few care to face in memory* For the life 
of an artist, whatever his endowments, is always hard. 
There may be also another less pleasing element in the 
reluctance of many to speak of these matters, Those 
who are chiefly interesting because of their struggles 
often say little about them, and dwell on their successes. 
They have never discovered that their only real triumph 
is in the fight they seek to forget. In such memories there 
is often a bitter-sweet flavour, but what the world calls 
success is often wholly bitter ; in that it comes too late. 

Though I was born in London, my earliest organized 
memories are those of the North of Devon, which has 
always seemed to me as much my home as any place 
could be to one who began wandering while he was still 
a child. I lived in Barnstaple, in Luton, in Tun bridge 
Wells, in Carlisle, in Wigan, in Oxford, and for short 
times in many other places before I was twelve, when 
I went to Bedford Grammar School. This was then a 
bad school of the ancient type, before the time it was 
reconstituted and made famous by the ability of Mr, 
Phil potts, Nothing was taught at it then but Kennedy's 
Latin Grammar, So far as instruction was concerned, 
that was the only thing I learnt much of in two or three 
years— if I omit the matter of continuous fighting, 
which perhaps stood me in better stead in later years. 
After this I went to Manchester and became a student 
at Owens College, but what folks call education 
came to an end for me abruptly, for I had trouble 
wilh my father. He was a man of remarkable 
qualities, but he had no idea of the way to handle a 
tolerably high-spirited youth, It was owing to 
this that I left home soon after I \v;i - eighteen. 

Original from 






and took a steerage passage 
to Australia in an old iron ship 
called the Hyderabad. 

Up to this time my life had 
mostly consisted of books, miti- 
gated by a seasonal passion for 
B Rugger/' I thought of little 
else than literature as soon as 
I had passed the age when most 
English boys desire to go to sea. 
My father owned many books 
and loved them, I read almost 
all he possessed before I was 
twelve. Nevertheless, although 
I was somewhat bookish^ there 
must have been other elements 
in me, as I soon discovered in 
the Hyderabad. My earliest 
passion had been for the sea ; 
it is the natural passion of an 
English boy. It now revived, 
and 3 though I was but a pas- 
senger, and a steerage passenger 
at that, I turned all my atten- 
tion to learning what could be 
learnt in this new school of 
mine. In this ship I found 
much of the world. She was a 
strange microcosm ; although 
the officers were white, her 
crew consisted of Hindus, 
Malays, and Sidi boys, and I 
found these races exceedingly 
interesting to me. I became, 
indeed, a great friend of ithe 
Malay serang, and I was, I 
believe, a particular favourite 
with the old mate, who often 
had me on the poop at mid- 
night and filled my eager mind 
with strange sea yarns and sea 
learning. I did my best to draw 
his character, not wholly with- 
out success, in a book railed 
"The Flying Cloud.' 1 The pas- 
sengers, too, were very interest- 
ing to me. They were com- 
posed of more failures, enter- 
taining blackguards, and pleas- 
ing ruffians than I had up to 
that time met in one place. 

After the life I had lived in 
England these were strange and 
wonderful experiences. I learnt 
the name of everything on 
board } both in English and in 
the Lascar i Bat in which the 
ship was worked. I also learn l 
to go aloft, and for several 





* -- 

months — for the voyage was 
very long— I worked as though 
I were one of the crew. 'The 
knowledge that I gained then 
was very useful to me later. 
Indeed, it has been useful to 
me ali through my life, for I 
learnt then to use my hands, 
and gained some of the quick, 
inventive faculty which distin- 
guishes not only the handy men 
of the Navy, but even more 
the handy men of the mercan- 
tile service, who have always 
more to do and less to do it 
with. This contact with real 
work and real workers and real 
life hardened my mind and my 
hands, and both perhaps needed 
hardening. Togo to the sea 
was to get back to Nature, and 
it is not only artists who have 
to get back to her ; she is 
needed by all men, for out of 
contact w r ith the sea and the 
earth there may come wisdom, 
though it may not be the 
wisdom of the world which 
leads to what is called success. 
On board our old ship I 
lived in strange absorption in 
this new life. I did not know 
what I was going to do in 
Australia, nor did I greatly care 
till I saw (ape Qtway wreathed 
in the smoke of the burning 
bush that hot summer, And 
yet that day seemed a strange 
and cold one to me. It re- 
minded me of my early boy- 
hood, when it suddenly occur- 
red to me as a new and great 
discovery that I should have to 
earn my own living, and that 
no one, so far as I could see, 
proposed to keep me for the 
remainder of my life, Now I 
saw the prospect of having to 
fend for myself come very near, 
I was only nineteen when I 
landed tn Australia, and my 
whole stock-in-trade consisted 
of childish book-learning, the 
knowledge of the sea which I 
had lately acquired, and a fairly- 
well-devel oped muscular 
system- Naturally enough, it 
w i • through this that 1 com- 

TV OTSfflASJW k * a ,ivb * In_ 




side of a fortnight after my 
arrival I was working as a 
labourer in Spencer Street in 
the goods sheds of the Govern- 
ment Railway, 

My life as a labourer was not 
at all unhappy, for I loved to 
use my hands ; I loved to gain 
experience. It was fine to see 
how things were done 3 how 
men worked, how they did with- 
out things that were necessary, 
and used or invented expedi- 
ents. It was a passion to me 
to gain experience. I worked 
for eight hours a day and 
earned six shillings during 
some months, but much of my 
pay was knowledge. I learnt to 
handle all kinds of merchandise. 
We discharged wheat in sacks, 
and all kinds of timber and 
bush products coming in from 
the country. We sent up- 
country manu (acta red goods 
and iron, bridge work, fencing 
wire, and all sorts of European 
provisions and manufactured 
articles. Every kind of case, 
every kind of package, takes 
some learning to handle. The 
work was hard and at times 
very unpleasant, and yet I got 
through it very well indeed, 
for every day I found myself 
grow stronger and more cap- 
able of meeting emergencies* 
But presently I became dissatis- 
fied with being on the civilized 
sea coastj for my native n..nd 
hankered for the wild bush, and 
I determined to go up-country 
into the wilderness. 

It always takes a little 
courage to cut oneself adrift, 
even from a hard way of earn- 
ing one's living. A man In- 
comes a creature of habit. 
There is a strange adhesiveness 
in him. Too often he becomes 
sessile* Yet the call of the 
wild was on me and i could 
not resist it. This call is one 
which all men experience at 
some time of their life, even 
if they have not courage to 
respond to it. At any rate, the 
possibility of replying to it is 
dormant in us all, and any- 

1? .^SSi 

.# *, £"T 





if )/J 

" L ^ 



thing may awaken it. The 
ancient experience of man a 
million years before there was 
anything that we call civiliza- 
tion is deep in everyone's heart. 
We all desire to renew it, to go 
through some of those things 
that the race has gone through, 
for by this we strengthen our 
hold upon the earth. We 
build up civilizations and they 
pass, and still the earth re- 
mains, and under new condi- 
tions mankind starts his 
ancient task. I found the bush 
enchanting, and its rudest 
conditions romance, For a 
little while at Albury, on the 
northern side of the Murray 
River in New South Wales, I 
worked in a mere office, but it 
was one which enabled me to 
lay hold of the life of the coun- 
try, and in some ways prepare 
myself for it- After that I 
went up to a station on the 
Upper Murray among the hills, 
and worked with sheep and 
cattle and horses. There I 
learnt how to handle sheep in 
the bush t and how to drive 
bullocks^ and how T to ride in the 
Australian fashion. I also be- 
gan to handle an axe and many 
other tools, unci when at last I 
left this station I was a fairly 
capable Tbu.^ hand, considering 
that 1 was still a " new-chum,'" 
as the old hands call the newly 

Now I turned myself entirely 
loose, and, buying a horse, set 
out upon my free adventures 
knowing not where I should go. 
1 was on one station as a 
boundary rider and general 
mender of fences. After that I 
worked for a contractor as a 
horse - driver on the station 
which was the old hiding-place 
of Morgan, the celebrated and 
brutal bushranger, As we sat 
round the camp-fire in that 
deep bush I heard many strange 
stories. While I worked there 
I not only learnt how to 
drive horses better than before, 
but how to handle the cross - 

nil saw, uk ;<\i , the broad a\c 




the mortising axcj the pick and shovel— to say nothing of the 
auger and a dozen other tools. The work was hard, and yet of 
strange interest, and this constant change of tools was very 
trying, for each fresh one that a man uses makes a new kind of 
blister, and finally a new callosity upon his hands. At one time 
while working here I counted forty blisters, or marks of them, 
on both hands. I left blood on every tool I worked with. 
Finally 7 however, I grew hard, and did not suffer after- 
wards. No doubt my mind grew harder, too. 

After leaving thus work I was on a small station, and again 
I went northwards toward the interior, riding right across the 
Riverina, Once I went to work near Forbes, the old mining 
town to the north of the Lachlan, and cut down Bathurst 
burrs on Dead Man's Plain. This was the very deep and 
strange wild bush, the country of the red kangaroo and eagle- 
hawks and emus, with a few rare aboriginals. Among the white 
men there were strange sc alia wags and outcasts from England, 
and some from America — men who had enlisted for life in the 
great Lost Legion ; who had been in Africa, in India, in the East; 
who had been sailors, soldiers ; and some broken and character- 
less men from great cities who had lost all they strove for and 
now lived from day to day, I became acquainted with sun- 
downers and tramps, with those who did no work and hated to 
hear of it — those who are called, in the slang of the bush, 
t; Murrumbidgee whalers" — men who begged or stole their 
tucker and fished lazily for the Murray cod, or set traps for the 
crayfish that live in the big Australian rivers, I learnt to know 
these rivers well — the wilder, fresher Murray of the hills • the 
deep-cut Murrumbidgee ; the meandering Lachlan, at ope 
time in wild flood, and then no more than a string of wat£r- 
holes. This was a good school, and the things I learnt by heart 
were of more importance than the prepositions in Kennedy's 
Latin Grammar. I began to love the great plains, awful as 
they seemed at first, and barren as they look in the hot 
summer. There was a fast [nation in the salt-bush, in the grey 
myall and boree country, in the box and stringy bark forests of 
the hills. There were pain and joy in the dawns that came up 
so hotly, and in the heavy noons, and the good, tired nights 
that came to us with work, I loved this life, and yet I hated 
it ; that is the nature of man. There is much suffering and 
much to endure j but it is a strange y big, natural life and 
helps one to be a man, or ought to help one to be. 

One had to endure heat and flies and mosquitoes, and 
what they mean in Australia and some other tropic countries 
no one knows who has not felt them. It was a w r orld of flies 
and mosquitoes and tarantulas and ants and centipedes, of 
scorpions and snakes and iguanas. Yet besides these there are 
the grey and red kangaroos of the hills and plains who live a 
happy social life, and the wild birds with their human -like 
calls and wonderful colour. The creeping and biting things — 
the triantelopes and triantewantegongs, as bushmen call the 
creatures that torment them — make life at times impossible , 
and yet long afterwards one remembers even such experi- 
ences with pleasure. For one of the great things of life is to 
remember what we have endured and suffered, perhaps with 

My last long experience^, in .the .bush was away on the 
Lachlan bark-bloc ks T far down the VYiUandra Hillabong, on a 
very big sheep-stationlJ|tf^E63II^c , iftiWy^^p^Jienced butcher 



and milkman, and learnt to break in young and savage cows 
for milking j often with risk to my life. I hated the brutality of 
much that I had to do, and yet learnt to do it, for these things 
had to be done, After that I was some months boundary 
riding on the same place. I looked after the fences of three 
paddocks, two of which contained a hundred square miles of 
country | and another fifty square miles. In one of them, after 
the lambing season , I had thirty thousand ewes and lambs for 
which I was responsible. During four months I rode on an 
average over a thousand miles a month ; some days I did 
sixty , eighty, and even ninety miles. These were the long 
days during the busy times of sheep mustering for shearing. 
It was no uncommon thing for me to get upon a horse long 
before dawn and only turn into my blankets at twelve or one 
c/tloek at night, Here one learnt not only Nature but very 
much of man among the two or three hundred who worked upon 
the station, 1 have half-forgotten the labour and half -for- 
gotten the names of those who worked with me, but much 
that they said and much that they did remains, They were 
great days, and perhaps I grew up there* 

Although I feel this now about the time I had in Australia, 
I do not think my sentiments were quite the same while I 
was going through these experiences. The labour was hard 
and tryingj and as soon as I grew capable of handling it with 
satisfaction to others my own satisfaction in it decreased and 
faded. There were other things to do and others to learn, I 
was a graduate in my first university, and life was still before 
me. Some men in the bush, or in the wild, are subdued to 
their surroundings and take on their natural colour for ever. 
Once more I began to feel that such a life was not every- 
thing, I came back strangely to books and the desire of 
knowledge in other schools. In some ways, it may be, I was 
not wholly like my fellows, although I held up my end with 
them to my own satisfaction. There seemed nothing in view, 
and no finality in life, I know now that there is no finality 
in any life, that it is all a becoming, as the metaphysicians 
say. Life is a series of processes, and if it were anything 
else it would not be life. The dissatisfaction I felt at last with 
what I was doing was no more than the dissatisfaction that 
all men feel the moment they have accomplished anything. 
While energy exists, the energy which is life, things remain 
to be done. We seek what is new, more experience, more life, 
more knowledge. And therefore, although I did not know 
what moved me, I felt that Australia had done its work so far 
as I was concerned. I determined to go back to England, 

I walked a great part of the way to the coast, and while 
upon the southward track starved for nearly five days in a 
flood, Part of the time I was eaten alive by mosquitoes. 
Nevertheless, I wiis very strong, and endured it, and came 
down at last to Melbourne with thirty pounds in my pocket, 
and went into a sailors' boarding-house in what was then called 
Williamstown. It was a very rough place, run by astound- 
ingly rough people. During the seven days I stayed there 
we had eight serious fights, in some of which razors were 
employed, to say nothing of more lethal weapons. The 
food was impossible, I have seen healthy young seamen 
take a rest during one mouthful of beef and complain wearily 
of ihe labour of chewing it. The tables and benches of our 
dining-room were clamped to the floor. The windows^ which 


k' '■ \\ :r "<■ 





v* -iZ« 

i i mam 

University of Michigan 



were always getting broken, 
were eight feet from the 
ground } and at the end of the 
room j far above the reach of 
anybody, there was a board 
with a notice on it, t( Order 
must and will be preserved/' 
To be in the house even a 
week was a liberal education 
in the ways of the wild men 
of the sea when they touch 
the earth again. From it I 
shipped on board a sailing 
vessel going back to England, 

It was something new for me , 
and something not a little 
daring, for my experience of 
the sea had not been great. 
Nevertheless, 1 had learnt 
very much on board the old 
Hyderabad. It seems to me, 
when I look back, that in a 
little over four months 1 gained 
as much knowledge of sea- 
manship as the average boy 
or apprentice learns in three 
or four years. Luckily for 
me t I was the youngest seaman 
in the crowd, and it was the 
general opinion of the crew 
that I was a runaway appren- 
tice, a 4t brass - bound poop 
ornament," as seamen call such. 
But they owned freely in the 
foVsle that if 1 had onlv been 
an apprentice I knew more 
than any they had ever come 
across. However, I never 
admitted for a moment that I 
had not been to sea for at least 
six years, and when one old sea- 
man discovered that I was 
perfectly capable of making a 
Matthew Walker on a four- 
stranded rope he was bound 
to believe almost everything 
I said, even if 1 knew very little 
about rnanv easier things. 

On the whole, I did very 
well in this ship, Taking it 
all round, I went home in her 
not without glory ; but my 
fellow - fore topman T an Irish- 
man named Reynolds* was 
aware of certain lacunae in my 
knowledge which he found 
surprising. They were the 
more surprising to his simple 
mind when he discovered I 






\ \ i 





knew many things better than 
he did himself, over and 
above the very great matter 
of the Matthew Walker. I 
found out that the possession 
of handiness and a certain 
practical intellect often put 
me on more than a level with 
men of greater age and much 
greater experience. My greatest 
triumph on board the Essex. 
however, was the fact that I 
was able to read an inscription 
m French on a tin of some 
preserved provisions. After 
that I was considered some- 
body in the foVsle, and my 
pretensions to other more 
important matters were not 
questioned, On reaching 
London River 1 left the Essex 
with a very good discharge, 
and was, indeed, invited by 
the mate to go back in her to 

My first great school time was 
over, I was back in London 
— in the world, Sometimes I 
wonder now what I learnt or 
what I had begun to learn. 
I had had certain practical 
experiences, but these, I think, 
were not the chief thing. The 
greatest difficulty in life is to 
be oneself j not a shadow, not 
a reflection , but something 
more or less real — if, indeed, 
any reality exists. Much as I 
had learnt of men, I think I 
had learnt more of myself — in 
fhe long periods of solitude 
that come to all men in the 
bush, in the rides in the hot 
noons, at lonely camping-times 
in the bush or on the open 
plains, I came back to England 
with even less respect for 
authority than I had when I 
went away. My elders and 
hellers were not necessarily 
right ; indeed, I often fell 
into the error of supposing 
they were necessarily wrong. 
Law had not the same autho- 
rity. There are always higher 
laws than those that men 
obey ; if a man is to be in 
girthlet smallest sense a pioneer 
SITY*ffW€*#*|ihi S . ^ there 



are two sorts of law-breakers 
—those who arc merely savage 
and atavistic^ and those who 
make the new rules that in 
their own time will be 
destroyed. It matters not 
how we find this out, A man 
may learn as much if he steals 
a sheep to feed himself and 
his hungry fellows, I had 
learnt to be a rebel. 

Yet a man is more than a 
double animaL I had another 
period of slavery to endure, 
and I resumed my studies in 
the old school of books- In 
the meantime I had to make 
a livings and worked in sundry 
Government offices as a writer 
at tenpenee an hour* Daring 
these years — for they amounted 
to years — my mind turned 
again to literature. It was now 
that I took to writing seriously, 
though what I did was mostly 
verse- Some of my friends, 
who were men of important :e 
in the literary world — though^ 
like most men of real import' 
a nee , very badly paid— encour- 
aged me greatly ; but under 
the double stress of uncon- 
genial labour in the day and 
writing at night my health 
failed. 1 found I could stay 
in England no longer, and 
just then my brother wrote 
to me from Texas. I threw 
my books down, raked together 
a little money f and went to 
meet him. He and 1 worked 
together, but soon afterwards 
he fell ill and left me to go 
North. I was once more 
alone, with the ordeal of the 
West before me, and the West 
was a strange, hard world. 

America was peopled by 
those who had the grit and 
courage to leave the Old 
World and face new con- 
ditions. Among these hardy 
men the harder and more 
adventurous went farther West 
still, leaving the weaklings 
and the cowards behind. Hence 
it is that in the West indivi- 
dualism is rampant, often 
cruel and brutal. Men look 

- 1 ■- h.l'i 








. =ar 


after themselves and their own. 
He that cannot stand must 
fall ; few hold out a helping 
hand — the romances which say 
otherwise lie. There is an old 
Western saying not without 
its truth— 11 I can't eat it; my 
dog won't ; you may have 
it." That is called Western 
generosity. However, even in 
this hard world there are 
kindly men ; the best one I 
ever came across was a pro- 
fessional gambler, The " re- 
spectable Jt people in his city 
would not speak to him ; never- 
theless, from my point of view, 
he was the finest man in the 
town, even though he had to 
ensure respect, or allowance, 
by means of a " gun. 3 ' 

1 spent three years in 
Western America , working in 
many States and Territories 
— in Texas, Illinois, Iowa, 
Oregon, California, British 
Columbia, and Washington 
Territory* Always I worked 
with my hands — as railroad 
labourer, on a section, and at 
harvesting. I was a labourer 
on the waterworks of St Paul, 
Minnesota. There I spliced 
gear for derricks and helped to 
put them up. 1 worked in icy- 
cold water in quicksand, and 
one day, having worked for 
twelve hours T I worked over- 
time all night. The next day 
I worked again, and half the 
next night* This was in order 
to get a little extra money to 
go farther West. 

The work in these Western 
conditions is hard, and often 
cruel, I remember when I 
first saw men working there 
I said to myself, '* These men 
have been told that if they 
finish the job quickly they can 
go home/* It was a natural 
mistake. The American may 
get bigger wages, but if he gets 
twice as much as an English- 
man he works three times as 
hard. There are few "soft 
seats J ' in America. As they say 
ftfltftiJefejffllt * s no 8°°^ look- 
ER5ffiSf"W*tt6HHy!N Then? is an 







■0 s 

old phrase, used among seamen and labourers, " Sixpenny- 
worth of ease is worth a shilling, 5 ' In Western America I do 
not think so much ease could be got for less than a dollar* Ii 
is a school that breeds men, but it occasional!) breeds bruit--. 
The pace and ferocity of life there create the " bad man f * of 
the prairies no less than they create the financier and trust- 
monger of the East and Mid die- West, Such men, whether 
they are hanged or whether they sit in glory on the necks oi 
the judges of the High Courts, are more or less of the same 
breed, and come out of the same conditions. As they say on 
the Western prairie, it is " Root, hog t or die." Natural selec- 
tion is at Its savages t. It is a great school for a youth, and 
for a time, but I doubt if any but the greatest minds, or the 
most primitive, would find it good to live there always. 

Yet, after all, it breeds men. There are few finer creatures 
than the typical cowman of the West, even if he differs from 
those who live their little life in romance. The typical look 
on the faces of men in Europe is that of anxiety. It is seen 
on most women's faces as well. Often 1 have seen the same 
look on the faces of savages, those on whom conditions press 
hard, or those who are unequal intellectually to the stress put 
on them. Twice only have I seen men calmly and serenely 
equal to the calls that Nature and society made. They were 
the best of those 1 knew on the great prairies, and those 
natives , both men and women, that I saw in the Samoan 
Islands—for even the women there looked one calmly in the 
face as if they would say, ** I am equal to all things, and equal 
to you." 

This paper is no narrative — I do not mean it for such. I 
have told the full tale elsewhere, though few have read it. 
Nevertheless, I may say that after my time in Texas and the 
Middle^ West I worked in the Rocky Mountains on the 
Canadian Pacific Railroad. After that I walked across the 
Valley of the Columbia, the Sel kirks, and the Gold Range, 
and went by way of the lakes and Kamloops to the coast. 
There I tried my hand in a saw-mill, and found it work indeed, 
under the conditions of the West. After that I was in Port- 
land, Oregon, and shipped in a barque for Hong Kong. I 
worked in her for some weeks, stowing lumber in her hold and 
preparing her for sea, but 1 did not go to sea in her owing 
to a difficulty I had with the second mate. As a man who 
knew something of the sea, I was aware that it was a fool- 
hardy proceeding to be in an American .ship with a hostile 
officer, especially if his hostility had been aroused by his having 
been proved in the wrong and rebuked by the captain on a 
seaman's account. Oregon was a hard country, but I preferred 
experiment there to massacre and probable mutilation at the 
hands of a typical American mate in the China Seas. No- 
where do the Americans run individuality into the earth so 
much as in their mercantile marine. It is the greatest ohjiet- 
lesson in the world to prove that individualism carried to 
excess means the denial of individuality to the majority. 

After leaving that barque I walked south through Oregon, 
and did some three hundred and seven tv-five miles in about 
a fortnight, starving most of the way, I got w r ork in the 
South, I was told that I worked for the meanest man in 
Southern Oregon — I trust it is true, for Oregon's sake. It is 
one of the most beautiful countries in the world, and much 
/^tJt^&tii -remains in my ■Stttglnaftfticiitkie more wonderful 



**S ' 

scenery of the Rocky Mountains and the Selkirks. But they 
say in the West, knowing it to be true from bitter experi- 
ence., " A man cannot live on wind pudding and mountain 
scenery/' That is one of their pleasant euphemisms for 
starvation, and is equivalent to " living on the round holes 
in doughnuts/' a Barmecide feast that I have myself indulged 
in in two cities of the Pacific Slope, A certain amount of trial 
is good for a man, no doubt ; but it is not good for a man^ or 
for anything else, to be tested to the breaking strain. That 
is what happens to many in the conditions of America. It is 
increasingly so in the conditions of Europe, as the race for 
power among the nations is accentuated and made more 
savage. Still, I do not regret nowadays any experience that 
I had, even though this experience included hunger and 
thirst, and that of being a homeless outcast in a great city 
with all I owned under mv hai. 

When I got down to San Francisco, which I did at last, 
I lived there for months without any regular work, and during 
that time spent all my spare hours in a free library, where 
I read furiously and amazingly, often with a tightened belt. 
I should have been a puzzle to an English librarian, but I 
think the man in charge of the books there had seen others 
like me before. At any rate, he displayed no surprise what- 
ever book I asked for. It was this experience among books, 
after nearly three years of enforced abstinence from such a 
mental diet, that made me yearn to return to England. I 
thought, and I was probably right, that I had got all that was 
good for me out of the West. It had been a great university, 
and I felt that I had graduated, if not with honour, yet with 
some credit. 

I knew the United States from east to. west and from north 
to south, from Fire Island to San Francisco, from Seattle down 
to Texas and the Panhandle, I had worked in Iowa, Illinois, 
Minnesota, Oregon, California, the Territories, and the Indian 
Nations. I knew something of Manitoba and much of British 
Columbia and Vancouver Island. I had sailed the Straits and 
had been down the Sound. I had met all kinds of working 
Americans and Kanucks. I knew the sheep and cattle men. 
I had been friends with the prairie-bred boy of the South- 
West and with the workers in the pine woods. I had seen 
something of hunting, and had learnt to handle tools, the 
cross-cut saw,' the bar, the shovel, short-handled and long- 
handled, the pick and the auger, the maul and the wedge. 
I had laboured in the saw-mills and understood their work, I 
had camped with Indians and outcasts, had been friends with 
tramps and hoboes, I had sailed lakes and understood 
railroading. Among my acquaintances were men of all breeds, 
not only Americans and Canadians, but Germans, Norwegians, 
Swedes, Frenchmen, Hindus, Japanese, Chinese, Finns, 
Lithuanians and Russians, Spaniards and the men of Mexico, 
I hud been friends with those whose language I did not know 
and who did not know mine, but still had found them men. 

So I came back to my old world and set to work writing 
books, endeavouring to put things down. And I found life 
here as bitter and savage and strange and sweet as it is in 
the East or West or South. For experience is more than 
art, and accumulates; and where life is the world of the 
unknown is still to explore, though it may be with bleeding 
han ds and f ee t . -v /■■* f A 


HADID, the Caliph of Bagdad, 
sat one beautiful afternoon 
on his silken cushions, smoking 
his long pipe, sipping his 
coffee now and again , and 
■J stroking his long beard- 
He had just awakened from 
a refreshing little nap, and felt pleased with 
himself and all the worid. 

This was the hour when the Grand Vizier 
Almansor liked to pay his respects to his 
Sovereign master, for the Galiph was at his 
be fit j good-tempered and affable. 

To him, then^ on this beautiful afternoon 
came the Vizier, according to his wont ; but 
the Vizier was quite unusually grave and 

Taking his pipe out of his mouth, the 
Caliph asked : — 

" Why such a thoughtful face, Grand 
Vizier ? " 

Almansor crossed his arms., bowed very 
low, and answered : — 

*' Lord and master, whether I have a 
thoughtful face or not, I cannot say, but this 
I know, and it angers me greatly, that in 
the court below is a merchant with most 

— i 








Illustrated by 
H. R. Millar. 

splendid wares, and I, alas 1 have no money 
with which to buy them." 

The Caliph, who wanted to please the Grand 
Vizier, sent his black slaves at once to bring 
the merchant up to him. In a very few 
moments they returned with a fat little man 
with a dark brown face, ragged clothes, 
and a chest containing all kinds of wares — 
pearls and sparkling rings, necklaces and 
bracelets, finely wrought pistols, golden cups 
and combs . The Caliph bought pistols for 
himself and Almansor and an elegant comb 
for the Grand Vizier's wife. 

The little pedlar began to put up his wares, 
when the Caliph spied a small drawer in the 

" Let me see that little drawer ! " he cried, 
" Is there anything inside ? " 

The pedlar opened the drawer and took out 
a little box which had a blackish sort of powder 
inside 3 and he also took out a small paper with 
words written on it, 

" You may have them both," said the mer- 
chant, " for a very small price, They are 
not of the least use to me, I bought them 
of a man who found them in the streets of 



pedlar. He was fond of foreign languages, 
and tried to read the words, but could not. 
Tliey were quite strange to him. 

He turned to the Vizier, and asked him 
whether he knew anyone who could make out 
the meaning. 

" Selim the learned, who knows all lan- 
guages, and who lives by the Great Mosque, 
will tell us what they mean," said Almansor. 
At once they sent for Selim the learned. 
" Selim," said the Caliph, " if you can 
tell us the meaning of these words you shall 
have a grand new holiday robe, but if you 
cannot you shall have twelve good strokes 
on the back and twenty-five on the feet for 
being called ' the learned ' to no use." 

Rather a hard alternative, but such is the 
way of Caliphs. 

Selim, however, salaamed most respect- 
fully, and answered cheerfully : — 
" Be it as you will, sire." 
For rather a long time he studied the 
writing, then suddenly he cried out : — 
" This is Latin, or let me be hanged." 
" Say what it means, then," commanded the 

Selim translated : — 

" Mortal, who findest this, praise Allah for 
this favour. Whosoever shall take a pinch 
of this powder, saying, at the same time, 
' Mutabor ,' shall be able to> change himself 
into any animal he pleases, and shall under- 
stand the language of all sorts of creatures. 
But beware ! If while thou art changed thou 
shalt by chance laugh, then the magic word 
shall be no more remembered, and thou shalt 
remain an animal." 

The Caliph was delighted. He made Selim 
swear to tell no one of this strange powder 
and writing, gave him a handsome dress, 
and sent him away. But he said to his 
Grand Vizier : — 

" What do you say, Almansor ? I call 
this a splendid purchase. What fun it will 
be to get changed into an animal ! Come to me 
early to-morrow, and we will go together into 
the fields, sniff a little out of the box, and then 
listen to what is said in the air, in the water, 
the forest, and the meadow." 

Scarcely had the Caliph dressed and break- 
fasted next day when the Vizier appeared 
as he had commanded him, in order to accom- 
pany him in his walk. Chadid stuck the little 
box of magic powder in his belt, and ordering 
his followers to stay behind he set out with 
only the Grand Vizier. They passed through 
the spacious gardens of the Caliph's palace 
without spying any living creature. Then 
the Grand Vizier proposed to go to a pool a 

little farther off where the storks, whose odd 
ways had often amused him, were wont to 
come and make plenty of noise. 

The Caliph agreed, and very soon they 
arrived at the pool. The Vizier was quite 
right ; there was a stork there already, and 
one flying overhead preparing to alight. 

" How would it be," said Almansor, " if 
we were to turn ourselves into storks ? " 

" Why, the very thing ! " answered the 
Caliph. " But first of all, what is it we have 
to do to get back again into our proper 
selves ? Ah, I remember ; bow three times 
towards the east and say '.Mutabor/ And, 
Grand Vizier, my friend, above all things, 
we must not laugh, or we are lost." 

He pulled the little box out of his belt, 
took a large pinch of the powder, and handed 
it to the Grand Vizier, who followed his 
example, while they both cried " Mutabor ! " 

Immediately their legs began to shrink, 
and shrink, and redden, their handsome 
yeHow slippers became clumsy storks' feet, 
their arms changed into wings, necks stretched 
out a yard long, the long beards suddenly 
vanished, and their bodies were covered with 

" You have a handsome bill, Mr. Grand 
Vizier," said the Caliph, after a moment of 
speechless surprise. " I have never in my life 
seen one like it." 

" Humble thanks," answered the Grand 
Vizier, as he bowed low; "but if I might 
venture to say so, you appear more handsome 
as a stork even than as a Caliph. But, if it 
please you, let us come and listen to what our 
fellow-storks are saying." 

They came nearer, but kept themselves 
hidden, and to their great amusement they 
heard the following conversation : — 

" Good morning, Lady Longlegs; you are 
very early in the meadow to-day." 

" Many thanks,dear Rattlebill. I am seeking 
a little early refreshment. Would not you 
like a bit of duck or a small frog or two ? " 

" I really have no appetite," the stork 
replied. " I am here for quite another 
reason. I have to dance before my father's 
guests to-day, and have come here while it is 
early and quiet to have a little practice." 

And thereupon the young stork began to 
step about in most wonderful fashion, standing 
now on one leg, now on the other, waving her 
wings gracefully, bending her long neck this 
way and that, till the Caliph and Vizier could 
bear it no longer, and broke into a hearty 

The Caliph was the first to stop. 



money ! " he cried, " What a pity it is that 
we have frightened them away ! Perhaps 
they would have begun to sing next/' 

But suddenly the Grand Vizier remembered 
chat they must not laugh while they were 
changed into animals, and he answered, i£ My 
goodness ! it would be a sorry joke if we had 

and poor Chad id and his Vizier were, and 
remained^ storks. 

Sorrowfully the two bewitched ones wan- 
dered through the fields, and what to do they 
knew not. They could not get out of their 
stork skins, neither could they return into 
the city to make known their unhappy fate. 


to remain storks 1 Do you remember the 
stupid magic word ? It escapes me/* 

** Three times to bow towards the east and 
say * Mu-Mu-Mu ' " 

They bowed and they bowed till their bills 
scraped the ground } crying anxiously " Mu- 
Mu-Mu — — " But; oh, horror ! the word 
had vanished completely from their minds. 

for who would believe that two storks were 
really a Caliph and Grand Vizier ? Even if 
they had been believed, who would have a 
stork for a Caliph ? 

They were very hungry, too, for frogs they 
would not eat , and the wild fruits they found 
they had great difficulty in picking with 
their long bILlsJ from 



For some time they flew round and about, 
often over the roofs of the houses of Bagdad. 
For a day or two they noticed there was 
trouble and anxiety in the city on account of 
their sudden and complete disappearance, 
but on the fourth day there seemed to be 
great excitement and preparations for some 
unusual event. The streets were beautifully 
decorated and were crowded with people. 
Soon they saw a gay procession, with trumpets, 
pipes, and drums resounding, and on a 
splendid horse, surrounded by his followers, 
came a man in gorgeous array of gold and 
scarlet — the new Caliph ! 

The people cried, " Hail, Mirza ! Lord 
and Sovereign of Bagdad ! " 

The poor storks were sitting on the roof of 
the palace and saw it all. 

" Ah ! now I understand well how it has 
come about that I am bewitched, Almansor," 
cried the Caliph stork. " This Mirza is the 
son of my deadly enemy, the powerful wizard 
Raschnur, who in an evil hour swore vengeance 
on me. Still, I am not going to give up hope. 
Come with me, faithful companion in mis- 
fortune. We will fly to the tomb of the 
Prophet ; perhaps there the magic will lose its 
power." jj 

But, though it is delightful to have wings and 
be able to fly, yet, as it was new to them, they 
did not find it quite easy. The Vizier was 
very tired after two hours' flying, and cried, 
piteously : — 
" With your permission I will rest awhile, 

master. I am too tired to go farther ; 
besides, it is nearly evening, and we must 
find a shelter for the night." 

" Very well," said Chadid ; " let us fly to 
that ruin I see in the valley below." 

They soon arrived there, and found that at 
one time it must have been a princely castle. 
There were many beautiful columns still 
standing, many wide corridors and spacious 
apartments. They began to explore, seeking 
for a dry, sheltered place for the night. 
Suddenly the Vizier stopped. 

" Lord and master," he whispered, " if it 
were not foolish in a Grand Vizier, and still 
more foolish in a stork, I would declare that 

1 am afraid of ghosts ! There is something 
strange about this place, and I hear sighings 
and groanings." 

The Caliph stopped and listened. 

" I, too, hear quite clearly sighs and sobs," 
he answered, " but they sound like human 
voices, not animals. Come at once ; let us 
see what it means." 

The Vizier plucked at his master's feathers 

in alarm, but the Caliph, who had a brave 
heart, although it was just then under stork 
feathers, tore himself away from the Vizier's 
beak and went into a dark passage whence 
the sighs seemed to come. 

The sounds grew louder, and now there 
was a mournful shriek. He stopped before 
a closed door, pushed it with his bill, and 
stood astonished on the threshold. The 
room was dimly lighted by a little lattice- 
window, and sitting on the ground, with 
great tears rolling from her eyes, he saw an 

As she caught sight of the stork she gave 
a joyful cry. She wiped with her speckled 
wings the tears out of her eyes, and spoke to 
the Caliph and Vizier, who had followed him, 
in good Arabic : — 

" Welcome, storks ; you bring me good 
luck, for a prophecy has declared that I shall 
be rescued by storks." 

The Caliph, with his long neck, made her 
a most courtly bow, and answered : — 

" Night owl, I can hardly believe your 
words, that you are indeed a companion in 
misfortune ; I fear, however, your hope of 
rescue is in vain. We are quite helpless, as 
you will see when you have heard our sad 


and then he related all that we 

already know. 

When the story was finished the owl said : 
" Listen now to what I relate, and you will 
see that I am just as unlucky as you. My 
father is an Indian king, and I am his only 
daughter, Lula. The wizard Raschnur, who 
has bewitched you, has also brought this 
misery to me ; and this is how it happened. 
He came one day to my father to ask that I 
might marry his son Mirza. My father is a 
very hot-tempered man, and in a sudden gust 
of passion he pushed the wizard downstairs. 
But the wizard very soon had his revenge. 
He knew how to change himself into any 
form he pleased, and one day, as I was walking 
in the garden, he came to me dressed as a 
slave and offered me a drink, which, to my 
great sorrow, I accepted. I drank it and 
became the miserable creature you see. 
Helpless and speechless with fright, I was 
dragged here by the wizard, who shrieked in 
my ear : — 

" ' Here you will remain, hateful one, until 
you die, shunned by animals even, unless one 
shall be found willing to marry you in this 
hideous shape. And thus I take my revenge 
on you and your proud father.' 

" Many months have gone by since then. 
Lonely and sad T live like a hermit in this 
building, shunned by eyei^ane^ a horror evep 



to animals* Nature, in 
all its beauty, has dis- 
appeared for me because 
I am blind by day. Only 
when the white light of 
the moon shines over 
these walls the veil falls 
from my eyes and I see 
once more*" 

As the owl stopped 
speaking she wiped 
away the tears from her 
eyes with her wings, for 
Jut sad story had made 
her weep anew. 

The Caliph stood for 
some moments , ihinking 
deeply. Then he said : — 

" I feel convinced, 
Princess, that there is 
some strange and secret 
connection between your 
unhappincss and ours; 
but how to find the key 
to the riddle I know 

The owl saidj 
eagerly : — 

" O sire, I feel sure 
you are right, for long 
ago a wise old woman 
foretold that a stork 
would bring me a great 
joy. I feel certain that 
you will be able to save 
me from my misery," 

The Caliph was much 
surprised, and asked her 
in what way she meant. 

She .answered : — 

+i The wicked Rasch- 
nur comes every month 
to these ruins. Not far 
from this room there is 
a hall ; there he and his 
comrades meet and feast. 

I have often listened to 

them. They tell one another of their wicked 
doings. Now I think it is very likely that 
they may name the magic word which you 
have forgotten." 

11 Oh, dearest Princess/ 3 cried the Caliph, 

II pray tell us more and say where is the hall." 
The owl was silent for a moment, and then 

said : — 

i( Please don't be angry ; but before I tell 
you, you must make me a promise." 

" Speak ! Speak ! " cried the Caliph, 
" Anything ; f will do anything you like." 

11 1, too, wish to be freed from this horrible 
bewitchment/' said the owl, w but that can 
only be if one of you offers to marry me." 

The storks were taken aback somewhat, 
and the Caliph motioned to the Vizier to 
come to a little distance. 

" This is a stupid business. Grand Vizier/' 
said the Caliph behind the door, 4< but you 
can take the owl if she is determined." 

" Oh, indeed ! " answered the other. " But 
what will rnv wife say? And* moreover, I 




unmarried. Surely it would be more becom- 
ing for you to offer your hand to a young and 
beautiful princess/* 

c * So it would seem/* replied the Caliph, 
sighing , while his wings drooped mournfully* 
M But how do you know that she is young and 
beautiful ? That remains to be proved, my 

They argued about the matter for a long 
time ; then, as the Caliph saw that Almansor 
would rather remain a stork than marry the 
ow], he determined to agree to her condition 
himself. She was overjoyed, and told them 
that they could not have come at a better 
time, for very probably the wizard would 
come to the ruins that very night. 

Led by the owl, they left the room to go to 
the hall- Very silently they stole along a 
dark corridor, until from a crumbling wall 
they caught sight of a clear, shining light. 

" Stay here quite still," whispered the owl. 

They could see through a crack in the wall 
a large hall below, with many fine columns, 
and splendidly decorated* There were so 

many coloured lamps 
that the place was as 
light as day. A round 
table stood in the midst, 
laden with all kinds of 
dainties. Around the 
table was a couch on 
which eight men were 
seated. One of them 
the storks recognized 
at once — the little ped- 
lar who had sold them 
the magic powder* 

M Tell us now what 
you have been doing 
lately/' asked the ped- 
lar's neighbour. You 
may imagine how the 
storks held their breath 
to listen. The pedlar 
told them the story of 
the magic powder and 
his visit to the Caliph's 

11 What was the word 
you gave them ?" asked 
one of the wizards. 

i( A very hard Latin 
word," replied the 
pedlar, with a laugh— 
" Mutabor ! " 

As the storks heard 
this, they were almost 
beside themselves 
with joy. They ran so 
quickly on their long legs, down the dark 
corridor to the door of the ruins, that the little 
night owl could hardly keep pace with them* 
The Caliph, true and honourable gentleman 
that he was, turned first of all to the owl, 

11 With all my heart I thank you for saving 
me and my friend by your generous help, and 
therefore I ask you to be my wife/' said he. 

Then he turned towards the east, where 
the sun's rays were just lighting up the 
mountains. Three times the two storks 
bowed their long necks towards the sun while 
they cried " Mutabor," and in an instant 
they were changed to men. 

Master and servant fell into each other's 
arms laughing and weeping. But who shall 
describe their astonishment as they looked 
round and saw a beautiful lady, richly 
dressed j standing before them ? 

Laughing, she gave the Caliph her hand, 
11 Don't you know your night owl ? " she 
The Caliph was entranced with her grace 

andb «»^l^toTCHIGAN 




11 Being changed into a stork has really 
brought me my greatest happiness, dear 

The Caliph Found in his dress both the 

box of magic powder 
and his purse. He 
boyght what they 
needed and the three set 
out at once for Bagdad. 
Soon they were at the 
gates. How surprised 
and delighted were the 
people to see again their 
old Governor, whom 
they had mourned as 
dead ! And how their 
hatred against Raschnur 
and Mirza his son 
flamed up! They 
rushed into the palace 
and took both captives. 
Raschnur was con- 
demned to pass the rest 
of his days in the 
chamber where he had 
put the owl, Mirza was 
made to take a pinch 
of the magic powder 
and at once was turned 
into a stork. He was 
plated in an iron cage 
in the garden of the 
pa Lice. 

Long and happily 
lived Chadid with his 
fair wife; but always 
his happiest hour of the 
day was the time when 
he sipped his coffee and 
smoked his pipe 3 while 
he and his faithful 
Vizier talked over their 
strange adventures as 
storks. If the Caliph 
should chance to be 
cross or dull the Vizier 
had only to tell him 
how lie looked as a 
stork, stepping solemnly 
up and down the room, 
flapping his arms like 
wings, making odd 
rattling noises, and 
bowing again and again, 
crying '* Mu - Mu - Mu 

/' to chase away all 

ill tempers or moodiness. 
One little secret, how- 
ever, the Vizier kept 
faithfully, though he often laughingly threat- 
ened to tell, .and .that was what happened 
behind the door ol the night owl's room when 
it tfWV*f^*@P/lflOWiM4r of marriage. 




In a certain convent there were eight large dormi- 
tories on one floor, approached by a spiral staircase in 
the centre, as shown in our plan. On an inspection 
one Monday by the abbess it was found that the south 
aspect was so much preferred that six times as many 
nuns slept on the south side as on each of the other 
three sides. She objected to this overcrowding, and 
ordered that it should be reduced. On Tuesday she 

found that five times as 
many slept on the south 
side as on each of the 
other sides. Again she 
complained. On Wednes- 
day she found four times 
as many on the south 
side, on Thursday three 
times as many, and on 
Friday twice as many. 
Urging the nuns to 
further efforts, she was 
pleased to find on Satur- 
day that an equal num- 
ber slept on each of the four sides of the house. 
What is the smallest number of nuns there could 
have been, and how might they have arranged 
themselves on each of the six nights ? No room may 
ever be unoccupied. 

Two men broke into a church tower one night to 
steal the bell-ropes. The two ropes passed through 
holes in the wooden ceiling high above them, and they 
lost no time in climbing to the top. Then one man 
drew his knife and cut the rope above his head, in 
consequence of which he fell to the floor and was badly 
injured. His fellow-thief called out that it served him 
right for being such a fool. He said that he should 
have done as he was doing, upon which he cut the 
rope below the place at which he held on. Then, to 
his dismay, he found that he was in no better plight, 
for, after hanging on as long as his strength lasted, 
he was compelled to let go and fall beside his comrade. 
Here they were both found next morning with their 
limbs broken. How far did they fall ? One of the 
ropes when they found it was just touching the floor, 
and when you pulled the end to the wall, keeping the 
rope taut, it touched a point just three inches above 
the floor, and the wall was four feet from the rope 
when it hung at rest. How long was the rope from 
floor to ceiling ? 

Here is a simple little puzzle game that is apt to 
perplex the beginner. Place any ten playing-cards 
in a row, as shown, with all their faces upward. There 
are two players. The first player may turn down any 
single card he chooses, the second player can then 

7 * 

turn down any single card or two adjoining cards, 
then the first player turns down any single or two 
adjoining cards, and so on. The player who turns 
down the last card wins. Remember that the first 
player must turn down a single, but afterwards either 
player can turn down either a single or two adjoining 
VoL xlviL— 2a 

cards, as he pleases. Should the first or the second 

player win ? 

What is the largest sum of money — all in current 
silver coins and no four-shilling piece — that I could have 
in my pocket without being able to give change for 
a half-sovereign ? 

The traveller his course will fourth awhile. 
And as he fifths at w r ay side inn will smile, 
For fast the rain is falling from the third ; 
The lightning flashes, and deep thunder's heard. 
But soon 'twill first, and 'neath the azure sky, 
With springing step he'll second, fresh and dry. 

Solutions to Last Month's Puzzles, 

Referring to the original diagram, the four stamps 
may be given in the shape 1, 2, 3, 4, in three ways ; 
in the shape 1, 2, 5, 6, in six ways ; in the shape 1, 2, 
3, 5, or 1, 2, 3, 7, or 1, 5, 6, 7, or 3, 5, 6, 7, in twenty- 
eight ways ; in shape 1, 2, 3, 6, or 2, 5, 6, 7, in fourteen 
ways ; in shape 1, 2, 6, 7, or 2, 3, 5, 6, or 1, 5,6, 10, 
or 2. 5, 6, 9, in fourteen ways. Thus there are sixty- 
five ways in all. 

The distribution took place " some years ago," 
when the fourpenny-piece was in circulation. Nine- 
teen persons must each have received nineteen pence. 
There are five different ways in which this sum may 
have been paid in silver coins. We need only use 
two of these ways. Thus if fourteen men each received 
four fourpenny-pieces and one threepenny-piece and 
five men each received five threepenny-pieces and one 
fourpenny-piece, each man would receive nineteen 
pence and there would be exactly one hundred coins 
of a total value of £1 10s. id. 

Here is one of syeveral solutions. Move 12 to 3, 
7 to 4, 10 to 6, 8 to 1, 9 to 5, 11 to 2. 

In four and a half years, when the daughter will 
be sixteen years and a half and the mother forty-nine 
and a half years of age. 


In addition to the two examples we gave, it is possible 

to land the following sixteen fishes in their order : 

Perch, roach, bream, sprat, ling, carp, tench, herring, 

dace, sole, barbel, whiting, swordfish, trout, chub, 


174.— AN ENIGMA. 
The answer is PALMS— ALMS. 


The traveller had at first the sum of five shillings 
and one penny. 

The number of lumps in each basin must have been 


The words are LEAP, PALE, PLEA, and PEAL. 



And tke Strokes Tkat Made It. 



[The photographs accompanying the text cons mute the unique feature of these articles. Each stroke was set up 
on the table by Mr. John Robert? personally, and the white line* illustrating the run of the balls were placed in 
position by him. The spot on the cue-ball ahow* the exact place where that ball must be struck to make the 
stroke depicted, and the line running from the cue-ball to the object-ball shows the line of aim for the stroke] 



AM by no means 

averse to safety 

play in billiards. 

It has its uses, 

and even its 

beauties. But its 

great drawback is 
the ease with which it is carried 
to excess, even by front -rank 
cuemen who could be named 
Among amateurs as a body, the 
gentle art of potting the white 
and running a double baulk is 
usually reserved for match or 
handicap games, when its intro- 
duction often upsets the normal 
game of those who adopt it for 
the occasion. Speaking broadly, just as 
attack is the best kind of defence, so it is 
always better to score if you can rather than 
put the white down , 


I may as well inform my readers 
that it is well down the table in 
first-class position for a losing 
hazard from hand, but offers no 
feasible score as the balls lie. 
The temptation to pot the white 
is very great, and as the four- 
stroke can be made easily 
enough it would be the game to 
do so if only a small break was 
wanted to finish a close match, 
and the probability of collecting 
the required points by playing 
from hand at the red was by no 
means remote. But in ordinary 
circumstances there is not the 
slightest reason why that white 
ball should be pocketed. Put a 
good deal of left side on the cue^ 

give a miss, or in- 
dulge in any other 
variety of safety 
stroke. Very often 
when it appears as if 
there is nothing else 
to do except make 
the white winning 
hazard, that ball may 
be saved and the 
break continued by 
the exercise of a little 

Take our first 
photograph, for ex- 
ample. The object- 
white is decidedly 
adjacent to the right 
top pocket, and as 
the red is not shown 


ball, aim carefully at the exact spot on the 
top cushion indicated in the photograph, 
and the cue-ball will glide in off the white 

every time. It is 
quite simple, and 
almost as easy when 
it is understood as 
making the four shot. 
The beginner will 
find the angle decep- 
tive, and until he has 
tried the stroke for 
himself he will hardly 
credit its ease and 

Any number oi 
pretty and profitable 
strokes can be made 
by bringing the cue- 
ball into contact with 
a cushion before 
allowing it to strike 
an object -ball, and 
useful position x\t.'iimikCDal f ro m to my mind this 




NO. 4, — A USKI-'UL 

beautiful phase of the 

game is not nearly so 

much practised in Eng- 
lish billiards as it 

deserves to be. In 

support of my argu- 
ment I have arranged 

a couple of neat little 

cannons, neither of 

which would appeal to 

the ordinary amateur 

as a stroke he ought 

never to miss. Yet 
such is the hut, as a 
trial stroke or two will 
quickly prove. Our first 
cannon is set up at the side of the table. 
The red is tight against the cushion, and 
the position of the other two balls is 
shown very plainly in the illustration 
(No. 2). A cannon can be made by pla> ing 
fine direct on the left of the red! but the 
stroke is not nearly so safe as the one I 
advocate, which is made by striking the 
cushion just in front of the red with the cue 
contact shown by the dot on the players ball. 
This will drive the red towards the middle 
pocket , and is sure to leave a nice chance of a 
good break. The other cannon is most useful 
because the position is such that a direct 
follow -through is impossible, and the stroke 
°ff the side cushion, which requires no 
explanation beyond what is shown in the 
photograph (No. 3), offers an easy and certain 

Our next stroke is another of the " cushion 
first Jl variety, as the tyro w r ould say, but 
l his time a hazard into a middle pocket is 
s^red. This stroke looks as if a fine hazard 
direct into the pocket is presented, but this 
l s because I have brought the object-ball 

rather a long way out for the class of stroke 
in order to show quite plainly the angle the 
cue-ball makes from the cushion to the object 
and then on into the pocket. Make a cue 
contact as shown (No. 4) by the spot on the 
cue -ball, and then try the stroke at the angle 
shown, and a working knowledge of a very 
useful type of shot will soon be gained. 

Once again w r e are faced by a stroke 
which has a deceptive appearance. The 
direct ball - to - ball cannon which appears 
so simple in the photograph (No. 5) is not 
so in reality, as the balls are a good deal 
farther apart than they appear. A correct 
idea of the distance can be gained by noting 
the position of the red and cue-ball against 
the side cushion, which is within a few inches 
of six feet in length- When the angle is 
lengthened according to this hint, and it is 
remembered that the cue-ball is much nearer 
to the white than that ball is to the red, then 
the real state of affairs 
becomes obvious enough. 
The fine cannon is play- 
able, of course, but is 
most decidedly not the 
game. The balls are at 
the baulk end of the table ? 
and what can the fine 
cannon leave? Nothing 
except the white in an 
impossible position, and 
the red badly placed as 
well, unless, more by luck 
than judgment , it hap- 
pens to stop in the vicin- 
ity of the middle pocket. 
Even then the cue-ball 
will be between the white 
and the red, a flagrant 
and needless transgres- 
of that excellent 

NO, 5. — AN IN- 



NO. &©j!frt|lEjlJjq : r£fft| FOSH'ION. 





billiard dictum which tells 
a cueman to keep two 
object-balls in front of the 
cue-balL This positional 
ideal can be reached and 
the score made quite 
easily by the stroke indi- 
cated in the photograph. 
This is a. follow - through 
with running side. The 
ball contact is nearly full, 
but a shade to the left of 
the object. From this con- 
tact the cue -ball will strike 
the cushion as shown by 
the line on the extreme lef t y 
while the object-ball will 
travel practically straight 
ahead, take the cushion at a point which en- 
ables it to clear the red , and come io rest a foot 
or so beyond that ball. Meanwhile the cue-ball 
will complete the cannon off the cushion and 
finish its run behind the red, thus leaving all 
three balls before the striker, well under con- 
trol, and close enough together to offer the 
easiest of scoring facilities. A direct run- 
through, if attempted, will send the object 
white off the side cushion in such a way 
that it will inevitably kiss the red out of the 
path of the oncoming cue-ball. Altogether a 
most instructive stroke, and one which will 
richly repay careful study by those who have 
advanced beyond the rudiments of the game. 
Our next shot is much easier, and comes out 
so well in the photograph (No, 6), that I need 
write but little concerning it, The cue-ball 
is in hand 3 and the uninformed tyro would 
assuredly place it somewhere well towards 
the right-hand spot of the li D/ J and bang 

7.— A SIMPLE * f KI5S" LOSItff 

away merrily at the easy 
ball-to-ball cannon thus 
presented. But the correct 
stroke is made by placing 
the cue-ball on the left- 
hand spot of the " D" 
enlisting the assistance of 
a little right side, and 
making a fine contact to 
the left of the red, which 
sends that ball over the 
middle pocket and com- 
pletes the cannon as shown. 
Still keeping the red ball 
tight against a cushion, we 
will pass on to discuss some 
useful kiss strokes. The 
first (No. 7) is quite a simple 
one, and the photograph describes it far better 
than anything in writing could do. The contact 
is approximately three-quarter ball, and the 
strength should not be more than is required 
to carry the cue-ball into the pocket. 

We now come to an advanced example of 
positional stroke (No. 8). The lie of the balls 
is depicted very well indeed, and the second 
photograph (No. g) ? shovvs the ball contact to 
a nicety. But the difficult part of the stroke is 
gauging the strength so well that the object 
white is steered into position off two cushions 
as shown. This will make a full call on the cue- 
man ship of my readers, and may be practised 
with profit, as it is a lovely shot, one of those 
billiard triumphs which effect a score from an 
apparently hopeless position, and at the same 
time leave something easy to go on with. 
This is a refinement which may well engage 
the serious attention of keen students, as it 
is most discouraging to overcome one hard 


)y V. 

NO. 8.— AN Al>VANc:Kt> POSJ 1 [ON^rJ^iPfeft^ffO (Tl 






stroke only to be confronted by another, 
possibly even more difficult, at the next shot. 
Sometimes, but rarely, this really is a risk 
which must be faced. There are strokes which 
make such a call on execution that nothing 
but the score can enter into the calculations 
of the player , and 
after-position must be 
left on the knees of 
the gods. But strokes 
of this type do not 
crop up anything like 
so frequently as is 
often supposed, and 
before accepting a 
difficult leave as hope- 
less position ally un- 
less the fates are kind, 
it is always best to 
strive to work out 
a solution which leaves but little to chance. 
An inexperienced player is easily deceived 
by the appearance of many strokes. At 
a hasty glance, for example, the stroke 
shown in our next illustration (No, 10) 
looks almost identical with our last. But it is 
not. A second and close 
inspection will show that 
the angle from cue-ball to 
red is different. As a 
matter of fact, the stroke 
is not a kiss at all. It is 
made with the cue contact 
shown, and a little fuller 
than half-hall contact with 
the red. Then the cue-ball 
impinges on the cushion at 
the spot indicated by a 
gap in the white line, and 
runs on to make the can- 
non. Not an easy one, 
this, but worth mastering 
a^ a test of cue -power. Na 11. 

NO, 10, — A TK5T OF CUK POWkR. 

by Google 

Reverting to strokes made by first bringing 
the cue-ball into contact with a cushion f I will 
commence by setting up a simple cannon 
which really requires no explanation beyond 
that afforded by the photograph (No. 11). 
I may remark, however , that the score is 

best made in this way 
for ma n y reason s . 
Quite a different pro- 
position is supplied 
by our next stroke, 
which combines screw, 
side j and a primary 
contact with the 
cushion* The red ball 
is in baulk, and the 
stroke is made by 
placing the cue-ballon 
the baulk line and 
striking it very low and 
to the right. Careful aim should be taken at 
the spot indicated in the photograph (No. 12), 
and attention must be given to the fact that 
in every stroke of this class the middle of the 
cue-ball has to come into contact with 
on the cushion. Then 
the running side will 
bring the cue -ball off at 
just that angle of reflexion 
which brings about the 
requisite contact with tlu 
first object-ball. At the 
instant of ball contact, 
screw 3 which retains its 
power after striking a 
cushion j comes into action, 
and brings the cue - ball 
nearly straight across the 
table , B y t he t i me t he*bal I 
has reached the opposite 
cushion the screw has 
evaporated, but enough 
of the strong side is left to 
Original from 

the spot marked 


2 3 8 



NO. 12, A CRAM) 5TKOKP,, 

make the fresh angle of reflexion which 
directs the cue-ball over to the baulk cushion 
just in front of the red, and so close to that 
ball that the rannon is sure to rt suit. This 

that bold, accurate, plain-ball striking allied 
to perfect cue delivery which is the foundation 
of billiards. The stroke I have selected lo 
illustrate my meaning shows the white ball 
tight against the baulk cushion , with the cue- 
ball more than a vard away and at such an 
angle that the losing hazard appears to be 
quite a fearful and wonderful business (No. 13). 
Strike the cue-ball a little high and a shade 
to the left, nothing in the least decided either 
way, and make the full ball-to-ball contact 
shown in our final photograph (No* 14), and it 
will at once be evident that the difficulties of 
the stroke are much more apparent than real- 
Hut not unless the cue swing and delivery is 
free from fault, as the cue-hall must have 

K0. Ij.— A TMST OF 

grand stroke may 
leave a feasible ^hot 
off the red, and lakes 
the white well out of 
that " danger zone ,T so 
detrimental when play- 
ing from hand — as no plain hazard can be 
scored from baulk off a ball within the 
41 danger zone/' 

In conclusion , I will return yet again to 

plenty of life in it to add a couple of well- 
earned points to the striker's score by making 
the losing hazard which at first sight seems 
scarcely feasible to the untrained eye. 

by Google 

Original from 


[ We shall bt glad to rerehrt Cantribuiioni to this septan t and to pay for sttth as are atttpted+1 


is on the far side of the ice, as will be seen by the 
slight distortion of the faces, but'the ice is so clear 
that the paper appears to be on the front of it. 


PUCK Fair/' held at KiUorglin, is one of the last 
of the old- time Irish fairs* and more than one 
story is told as to the origin of its name* Amongst 
them is a tradition that when Cmm well's soldiers were 
in Ireland a large party of troopers were coming over 


WE mourn revdently for the death of our 
Emperor Meiji, and* on the day of His funeral 
set this Turtle free in the sea of the Bon in Islands. 
September 13, 191 2. Governor of Tokyo, Japan* 
Ton Ru Abe." The above inscription, in Japanese 
and English, was carved on the shell of a large turtle 
at the time of the death of the Emperor of Japan, by a 
native of the Benin Islands, in the Pacific It took 
the main three days to complete the inscription, and 
then the turtle was set free on the day of the Emperor's 
funeral, It is strange the Japanese should have been 
to the trouble of adding an English, inscription — but 
they love an opportunity of showing off their know- 
ledge of English. Rev. L. B. Cholmondeiey, Chapiain, 
British Embassy, Tokyo, Japan. 




n 1 

iS- ■^EjBPV&£ 2uf ■ 


tHB8HI jTT - 



THIS piece of ice w T as 
Collected and photo- 
graphed in Robertson Bay 
hy Mr. Priest ley r one of 
the geologists of Captain 
Scott's British Antarctic 
Expedition. It was about 
four to five inches thick, 
■md unusually transparent. 
He wanted some means 
of showing up the trans- 
parency, and used the 
wrapper from a piece of 
Fry*s milk chocolate, 
which he happened to 
have with him* The paper 

the Kerry Mountains, 
making for Killorglin, 
when they frightened a 
flock of goats* These im- 
mediately made off helter- 
skelter for Killorglin, and 
dashed wildly into the 
town headed by a great 
M Puck." Thus warned of 
impending danger, the in- 
habitants beat off the 
troopers, and in grati- 
tude dedicated a fair to 
their horned defender, 
and elected him king 
for a day-— -Mr* William 
I?. \rcCarthy, Photo- 
grapher, Tralce, 





THE anagram letter in a recent number excited 
so much interest that we have pleasure in pub- 
lishing another example, on similar lines, by Mr. Eilie 
Norwood, the well-known actor. Perhaps we need 
scarcely add that each word, or group of words, 
printed in heavy type may be formed into a single 
word, thus makmp perfect sense when the whole is 
read* The solution will be given nt'xt month. 

My dear Draft Hanger, 

A Gran Ma is my Tad argues here ; see I 
throw our valet ire, the missing toy, might 
see ihi* step lie, and be grenade, and the usual sub 
tutor would follow. His pay that in to damn 
I know, and us me in I trap a curl {though 
I'm not a rag is stuff) is diary err on tax, 
and must be the result of Simons patent dip in 
youth. He think* he is the tee wares of awe crises, 
which causes both tin in a coach and any one 
can; that is re Opal band, you'll a^mif. O be 
subsidy ! how I hate them ! they are sleeper in 
herb) stupid lost arm, with no more feeling than 
a south throb ! But you, my dear Grecian on 
oat, are champs piety, and I revei in Riving you 
any no fat minor I about my ice fan. He is 
quite Underflow I you should see his clever put a 
Hon main of his paean lore; I was his green 
saps once, you know. He seems Adept at for fig 
lyn, and his chain me is the best into a Babel. 
We are to be nut die in Ruby fear, and shad 
always feel it tug dear for your toy is green, 
and my mint again. We shall have to be cool 
cinema in th 1 ivy green. 

Your loving hunted drag rag t 



IT is a custom in Japan when a man is seriously 
il] for his family to pay homage to the tutelary 
deity, and to offer a wooden shrine gate^i a pro- 
pitiatory gift to the deity for Ids recovery. The 
accompanying photograph shows a number of such 
gates in front of a sanctuary* the Japanese 
characters on them being the names and address* 
of the donors ami the date of the dedication. The 
greater the number of gates the bitter is the patient's 
chance of recovery t nought to be*— Mr. 1C Sakamoto, 
19, T.suji-Kuru Cho, Yamada, 1st*, 


TF you multiply the number of Jacob's sons by the 
number of times which the Israelites compassed 
Jericho, and add to the product the number of 
measures of barley which Hoaz gave Kuth T divide this 
by the number nf Haulm's sons, subtract the number 
of each kind of clean beasts that went into the ark, 
multiply by the number of men that went to seek 
Elijah sfter he was taken to heaven, subtract from 
this Joseph's age at the time he stood before Pharaoh, 
add the number of stones in David's bag when he 
killed Goliath, subtract the number of furlongs thai 
Bethany was distant from Jerusalem, divide by the 
number of anchors cast out when Paul was ship* 
wrecked, and subtract the number of persons saved 
in the ark, the answer will be the number of 
pupils in my Suit lay school class. flow many 
pupils are in the class ? The answer will be given 
next month, [This puzzle Is one of a large number 
of interesting problems contained in " Mathematical 
Wrinkles," published by Mr, Samuel T. Jones, of 
Gu liter, Texas.] 


A. Solo Hand. — Diamonds — ace* king, queen* 
knave ; Spades — ace, king, queen ; Hearts- — ace* 
king ; Clubs — king, knave, a, 7 (tramps). 

B* — Diamonds — none ; Spades— none ; Hearts — 
queen, knave, y, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 2 ; Hubs — ate, quixn, 
to, S. 

C-— Diamonds— 2 P 5> 7- 8, 10 ; Spades— 4, 6, 7, 9, 
to, knave; Hearts — j, 10; Clubs— none. 

D. Dealer. — Diamonds — 3, 4, 6, 9 ; Spades— 2, 
3, 5, S ; Hearts— none ; Clubs— 2, 3, 4* 5, 6, 

The Tricks as Played,— 1. A leads 9 of Clubs, B ro 
of Clubs, C 5 of Diamonds, D 2 of Clubs ; 2, B leads 
queen Hearts, C 3 Hearts, D 3 Clubs, A ace Hearts ; 

3, D leads 4 Clubs, A 7 Clubs, B S Clubs, C 4 Spades ; 

4, 15 leads knave Hearts, C io Hearts, D 5 Clubs, A king 
Hearts ; 5, D leads 6 Clubs, A knave Clubs, B queen 
Clubs, C 6 Spades ; 6, B leads ace Clubs, C 7 Spades, 
D 3 Diamonds. A king Clubs ; 7. B leads 9 Hearts, 
C 2 Diamonds, D 2 Spades T A ace Diamonds ; 8. B leads 
8 Hearts, C 10 Spades, D 3 Spades, A kin^; Diamonds ; 
9. B leads 7 Hearts, C 8 Diamonds, D 4 Diamonds, A 

Sueen Diamonds ; 10. B leads 6 Hearts, C 7 Diamonds, 
1 5 Spades, A ace Spades \ it. B leads 5 Hearts, C 10 
Diamonds, D 8 Spades* A king Spades ; 12. B leads 4 
Hearts, C 9 Spades, D 6 Diamonds, A queen Spades ; 
13. B leads 2 Hearts, C knave Spades, D 9 Diamonds, 
A knave Diamonds* 



HERE is the solution to the little puzzle entitled 
"Can You 
Do It ? " which ap- 
peared last month, 
r* Start at B and 
leave the object 
at A j 3, C to B ; 
3. D toC; 4 E i 
to D ; 5. F to 1 ■] ; 
6. G to F; 7. II 
to G, The start 
can be made at 
any point, if care 
is taken to place 1 
the object on the 
point from which 
the previous one 
started. A 



The amusing Story, 


on page 312, has been selected for filming 
for the Cinematograph Theatres throughout 
the country as No. 3 of a series entitled : 


No. 1 of this series was 


a splendid aeroplane story, published in 
our January number under the title, 


while No. 2 was the intensely dramatic story, 


which appeared last month. 

Our readers should not miss the opportunity of seeing these 
films, which are being taken by The Solograph Film Company, 
and which will provide some of the most original and 
striking effects ever shown on the screen. 

f^ru"*nL" fc Original from 



(Stt page 250 i 

The Steel Spanner, 


Illustrated by Christopher Clark, R.L 


TAFFIELD," said the senior 
subaltern, '* you are a dis- 
grace to the me 

For a minute there fell 
upon the small room the 
silence of the sand-butts 
after the explosion of a big 
shell. Then there was a slight shuffle of 
spurred heels. Staffield's ears flushed to the 
colour of his mess-jacket and his sensitive 
mouth stiffened to a narrow line. 

u Your seniority/' he answered, unevenly. 
u gives you no right to come to my room 
and make a statement like that/^QQf 

The senior subaltern's large red face grew 
redder. In the shadow behind him the fire 
flickered coldly like bayonets in a moonlit 

" If you had any pluck in you at all you'd 

1 that and chuck me out, or try to, but 

you haven't, and that's just why we're here." 

Staffield's boyish face twitched oddly. 

The other men in the room were staring 
rigidly in front of them. The senior subaltern 
was saying nothing stronger than they would 
have said ; to their minds, Staffield had 
broken a tradition upon which lay the very 
foundation of the regiment. 

11 Lei me remind you lhat mv seniority 




gives me every right to see that a ' sub/ of 
' Ours' does nothing he should not do; so kindly 
explain why you, a ' Hellferleather/ funked 
that fence to-day when every other man in 
the/ field ' took it ? " 

The words came in a cold staccato. Staf- 
field rose from his seat and slowly inserted in 
the crowded bookcase the book which he 
hacf been reading. The disapproving glances 
of his brother officers followed his movements 
to the studious article of furniture which 
inexcusably intruded on the conventional 
room equipment of a Sixth Lancer. Staffield 
reseated himself in front of his inquisitor. 
" I repeat/' he said, unevenly, "my horse 
was unreliable, and — I saw nothing useful in 
risking a broken neck or a smashed collar- 

" You saw nothing useful ! " exclaimed the 
senior subaltern, in tones almost incredulous. 
" You've been with the mess eighteen months 
—rand you go and ruin the record the regiment 
was raised on — and you and all of us have 
been fed on — and then say you could see 
nothing useful ! " 

For a moment there was silence, while the 
scornful words sank in. 

The bitter incredulity of the senior subal- 
tern's voice expressed the sentiment of the 
whole mess, from the colonel downwards, 
towards the incident of the afternoon. Every 
regiment is saturated through and through 
with the traditions, superstitions, codes, and 
unwritten laws which have made British 
regiments what they are. These deathless 
scrolls are loved and honoured always with a 
faithful singleness of vision that the civilian 
cannot comprehend ; and of these worshipped 
creeds there is usually in every mess a premier 
idol or fetish that is treasured and guarded 
above all. In turning back from a fence this 
young boy officer of the hardest riding cavalry 
regiment in the Service had broken the 
sacred Icon of his regiment. 

" Smythe and Bride were on hacks and got 
over," said one of the other men. 

" Smythe's in hospital to-night/' answered 
Staffield. " I saw him go down." 

" Hang it/' said the senior subaltern, 
tensely ; " what's it matter who got smashed ? 
There isn't a man of ' Ours ' who wouldn't have 
donkeyed it over in the middle of the night 
rather than jib a lead : and the whole place 
was watching you." 

" Day of the regiment's farewell, too," 
muttered the subaltern at the window. 

" Yes ! a pretty picture for the papers — 
what ! " said the senior subaltern, grimly. 
" c Officer of the Hellferleathers refusing a 

fence. Farewell function of a famous regiment 
en route for the front, etc., etc.' " The words 
were flamboyant, but the spirit bitterly 

Staffield drew a deep breath. He was very 
white under this united onslaught, this boy 
subaltern with the sensitive face and thought- 
ful brow. 

" I'm afraid — you don't quite understand,'" 
he said, unsteadily. " It didn't matter — to 
my view — who was looking. It wasn't — a 
circus. There was no real- reason for me to 
chance an almost certain smash, so — I didn't 
do it." 

The men on the bed got to their feet. " Let's 
push off," said one, gruffly, with a glance at 
his wrist-watch. " They'll be rotting up for 
this old dance soon." 

The senior subaltern drew his Ions: lesrs 

" No, Staffield," he jerked out. " I'm 
afraid we don't understand anything except 
that you've behaved in a manner unlike one 
of 'Ours.'" It isn't the first time you've 
shown a curious regard for that pretty face 
and precious skull of yours. And/' he con- 
cluded, with a stern glance at the tense, 
boyish face in front of him, " the opinion of 
the mess is that you are a disgrace to the , 

With this pronouncement he turned on his 
heel, and without another word the five of ] 
them jingled slowly across the room. The 
door opened and closed sharply, and Staffield, 
his clean-cut face oddly drawn, was left alone 
to grapple with the full significance of this j 
room court-martial. The ordinary " rag/' 
with which the unpopular or unconventional 
officer is brought into line with his mess or j 
forced out of it, was quite a different thing 
from this deliberate deputation on a crowded 
day of the week of a regiment's embarkation 
for active service. To the cold eye of layman 
logic the senior subaltern's arraignment was 
unnecessarily harsh and disproportionate, but 
in a regimental mess everyday acts have 
far different values. Beneath the senior 
subaltern's arraignment lay the measured 
judgment of the mess, and under his final 
accusation was the grave and serious assess- 
ment of that living entity, the spirit of the 

The boy sat with a queer hurt look about 
him. His eyes travelled slowly round the 

Its appearance subtly reflected its owner. 
The narrow bed, half hiding the double row 
of highly-polished boots standing beneath, 
with their carefully-tree'd heels arrayed at 




regular intervals against a long, slim uniform- 
case j was usual and typical enough ; but the 
cases of books, the model of a military rail- 
waVj the reading-lamp, the selection of 
photographs on the mantelpiece., containing 
only one picture of a brother officer } were 
markedly different features from the average 
subaltern's room. He should have had 
pictures of at least half the mess* His book- 
case should have been at most a small support 
for a few novels. The engineering model 
should have been a cabinet gramophone. And, 
most of all, in the Sixth Lancers he should 
have had his walls hung with mask and pad 
and brush, hunting-crop and sporting prints. 
Trifling differences in the outside world. Inn 
significant departures in a barracks* 

A sharp knock sounded on the door, and a 
tallj mess-kitted figure entered. It was the 
man whose portrait stood oo^&afl*W*s 

mantelpiece- On his shoulder flashed three 
small gold stars ; on the flap of his jacket 
hung, in miniature, two war medals and the 
D.S.CX medallion. In his gaunt, plain 
fcice shone eyes that held charity and 

11 Hailoa, Staffield/ 1 he said, cheerily, ; * just 
looked in to tell you the CO. wants to see you 
at orderly-room at nine to-morrow, " 

He sat down, u Blundell been in here ? " 
he asked. 

Staffield nodded, 

i4 Ragging, I suppose ? ** 

Staffield stureel ai the carpet. 


24 6 


ik Only told me I was a disgrace to the 
regiment," he said, simply. The pain in his 
voice made the other get up and walk about. 

" I can talk to you, Edwards, as I can't 
talk to anyone else. You've always been 
decent to me." he said, quietly. " Was it so — 
awful — to-day ? " 

The answer came after a pause. " One has 
to do lots ot apparently unreasonable things 
in a regiment. It's best to ' dress ' with the 
rest." H^ turned round. " You know, 
Staffield, you're a bit different from the 
average giddy subaltern — too much sense, 
really. You don't fall into pattern with 
most of us : and that sort of originality isn't 
popular in the Service, especially when it 
affects a regimental custom." 

44 Is it a regimental custom to break one's 
neck as a relaxation from duty ? " 

44 That's not quite it, old boy," answered 
the other, gravely. " It's a regimental 
custom to court risk rather than shirk it, and 
I think it originated in the not unsound idea 
that a man must be daily familiarized with 
danger, so that when the time comes in war he 
will treat it with the right contempt." 

u Do you think a man who refuses to be 
deliberately reckless, say at a hunt, is going to 
fail whejti the real necessity arrives ? " 

The question seemed to embarrass the 
other man. 

" I'd value your opinion, Edwards," pleaded 
the boy, quietly. 

It was a full minute .before the elder man 
spoke. * 

44 Archie/' he said, " you may not like my 
answer, but — I've seen something of real 
soldiering, and — I've never found — the reck- 
less man lacking as a soldier." 

Staffield studied the other's spursu 

t; It's a kind way ofc ^putting it,'phe said, 
at last, dully. 

" Well, buck up, yotmgster," said the other, 
suddenly, with cheerfulness. " We are not 
all built on the same lines." 

He turned to the door. " I must push off 

" Wait a minute," said Staffield. " What 
does the Colonel want me for in the morning ? " 

Edwards thought for a moment. " I'm 
not supposed to say a word," he said, at last, 
" but — you might as well know. We've got 
to leave a subaltern behind at the depot," he 
continued, with overdone casualness, " and 
the Colonel mentioned your name." 

" At the depot — while you fellows go to the 
Front ! " 

Edwards coughed. Staffield bent down 
and stared at the floor. 

" Is it an order ? " he asked, at last. 

" I believe so. You'd be detailed off.' 
Edwards put his hand to the door-knob. 

" Wait," said Staffield, queerly. " Excuse 
my questions, but when was my name 
mentioned ? " 

" Why — er— just before mess to-night. I 
must really dash off." 

And once more Staffield was alone in his 
room ; this time to face the bitterest situation 
that can befall a soldier. Condemned by his 
mess as a disgrace to his regijqaent — a thing of 
contempt to his brother officers — a subject 
of charitable toleration to his only mess- 
friend, and — deliberately selected by his 
Colonel to stay at the depot while the regiment 
went where lay a soldier's real work. 

Staffield pulled himself together. Thank 
God, there was still one left to believe in him 
and understand him. He would be seeing 
her in a few minutes at the dance. 

Through that evening, with a brave smile 
on his boyish face, and braver wit on an 
untripping tongue, Staffield punctiliously 
practised the ballroom rites of a junior 
subaltern, talking to sitting dowagers and 
dancing with faded wallflowers. His task was 
not easy when contempt could be read in all 
faces by his sensitive eyes, and hostility 
detected in the jingle of every spur ; when the 
very spirit of the flag-hung scene in its martial 
glory of red and gold jackets and twinkling 
medals circling amidst soft silk and flashing 
jewels, backed by the glittering crimson 
splash of the regimental band, flung out an 
aloof reproach. At the commencement of the 
last dance Staffield left the marquee. His 
companion was a girl upon whose form his 
eyes had been directed most of the night. He 
had not danced with her once during the 
whole evening. She had touched his hand in 
greeting at the beginning with an odd haste, 
and had given him only the last dance 
instead of half her programme as she used. 
She had danced only once, and that with her 
father, the Colonel. 

" Take me to the ante-room," she said ; 
and, with her hand laid lightly on his sleeve, 
they passed through the canvas corridor into 
the great entrance-hall. 

Proudly beautiful was this tall, straight 
girl, in every sense the daughter of her father, 
the Colonel of the regiment. In Staffield's 
eyes, as he looked at her, shone the pure, 
steady light of a boy's adoration. In her 
presence he seemed oblivious of everything 

Sheled^^^jn^^gjt^-room. Staffield 




never spoke ; he did not want to when he was 
with her. His faith and worship was a very 
beautiful thing. 

Side by side they walked down the centre 
of the room and halted beneath the centre- 

lamp that gleamed on its surroundings with 
almost conscious pride. Wi'hin its shaded 
radius hung; some of the regiment's guidons, 
tattered and torn by age and conflict , and 
stained darkly with the blood of mam- sons 




slain in defence of the si 1 ten emblems. 
Beneath the gallant remnants gleamed a 
sword-hilt carrying a few inches of blade- 
The rest of the steel was in the body of a tall 
Russian lying buried beneath the field of 
Balaclava, The broken stub itself was found 
embedded in the skull of another bearded 
gunner in the same silent group, the dead 
fingers of a fair-faced young officer still 
damping its gory hilt. 

Most prominent of all, in a gold-rimmed 


case hung a bronze medallion surrounded by 
a wreath enamelled in the colours of the 
regiment and surmounted by the regimental 
crest. It commemorated a ride of a hundred 
and fifty years before, when the officers of the 
mess had risen one night from the table at 
barracks undearned the regiment its nickname. 
The ride was to a distant town in a straight 
line, over and through everything. Five 
only out of ten officers returned. The res. 

were left at the bottom of a gorge that was too 
wide for their horses to leap. 

Diana Lerris had known that story in her 
" Don't you love all this ? " she breathed. 
i£ I do/' said the boy, simply. His eyes 
were on the broken sabre. Swift as a flash 
she turned round on him* 

M How could you ? Oh ? how could you ? pa 
she cried. 
Staffield looked at her with slowly-whitening 


"Diana!" he 

She looked at 

"Archie," she 
said, very slowly. 
11 to-night I heard 
fa t !i v i say that 
you were to stay 
behind at the depot 
instead of going 
with the regiment 
to the front." 

The boy stared at 
her, M You t^eard 
—that?" he said. 
11 Yes, to the 
Adjutant," she 
answered. M He 
said something 
else, too — he said 
he thought you'd 
prefer it — judging 
by to-day*" 

The colour came 
back to Staffield s 
face suddenly. 
The tones of her 
voice stung him. 
There was a long, 
tense pause. 
; 'Do you believe thatj dear?" he asked, 

Through the open window brave and gay 
came the sounds of the regimental march, 
with its odd effect of galloping hoofs and 
ringing accoutrements. There was a quick 
jingle of spurs, and Colonel Lerris stood at 
the door. 

" Diana," he called. 

She looked once at the boy's drawn face : 
and then, without a word, she turned and went 
slowly to her father. 

And Staffield stood like a man robbed of 

Earth, Heaven and all Faith, 
Original from 

IJMVEfe^ reported - absent 



from barracks." He had gone without a word, 
even to his soldier servant. 

" I suppose/' said the senior subaltern, 
grimly, " he didn't know he would be staying 
behind in any case" 


Grey anxiety lurked in the conversation of 
t.he group of officers standing near the brown- 
coloured engine. The hot, sunlit air shivered 
and shook to the thunderous roar of the great 
shells that were hewing the heart from the 
defence. In the trenches on the other side 
of the hill the grimy defenders gripped hot 
rifles and gazed along blackened sights to 
the broken ground and low hills at the other 
side of the gleaming steel rails, which divided 
the attack from the defence like a chalk-line 
in a tug-of-war. 

Now and then, to the accompaniment of 
one of those mighty crashes, a section of 
elaborate earthwork would vomit a great 
dust-cloud, subsiding to reveal an ominous 
plough of reddened earth, and a dreadful eddy 
of silence in the lines of clamouring rifles. 

On the inside of the hill, the centre of a 
yawning scar, lay two dismantled guns ; 
beyond them, in the Base centre, two squads 
of sweating men fought the flames of a huge, 
twisted heap that had been a train-repairing 
shed — further tributes to the cataclysmic 
menace that growled in skilful traverse from 
the far hill beyond the glittering rails across 
the battle-front. In the trenches and the 
Base reserve men were swearing dully, and 
officers were desperately wondering what had 
intervened to keep the top on that hill to 
which the enemy's only heavy guns had 
been cunningly manoeuvred by the crafty 
strategy of the Base Commander. 

In the little group around the Commander 
and his Chief of Staff there was no doubt as to 
what had nullified so dangerously the skilful 
work of sweating Sappers in the daring plan 
for the destruction of the enemy's only 
formidable weapons. 

The buried wire between the base and the 
carefully-mined hill had become disconnected. 
The lever in the black storage-box that should 
have shot its current to the fuse in the mine 
had been switched in vain, and the frowning 
Sapper officer had stated that the leak was at 
a joint immediately beneath one of the 
glittering rails now being swept from both 
sides in low and high trajectory by screaming 
shell and whistling bullet. It was unnecessary 
for him to state the very obvious fact that, 
unless that short circuit could be remedied, 
the Base was doomed . It was also unnecessary 

Vol. xlvii. — 30. 

to state the human impossibility of repairing 
it in a fire one-tenth of that which swept the 

On the footplate of the smoking engine, 
listening to the grave remarks of the grey- 
haired Commander, stood a slim-bodied man 
in greasy blue overalls. Beneath the grime of 
his calling and his unshaved cheeks his face 
looked oddly youthful. 

He was specially interested, perhaps, 
because he had watched the hurried joining 
of that insulated wire after the Sappers had 
cut it to pass it under the rail-line. 

Suddenly he swung himself down to the 
ground and saluted the Commander. 

" With your permission, sir," he said, 
quietly, " I will try to repair that leak," 
and he waved a thin, dirty hand towards 
his panting engine. 

" I know where the join is," he added, 
somewhat nervously, as they stared at him. 

" Who are you ? " asked the officer, curtly. 

" Driver spare engine B. 2 armoured train, 

" Sapper ? " 

" No, sir — volunteer rail engineer." 

" Well, get back to your post," was the 
sharp order, " and learn to submit suggestions 
through your immediate superiors. That one 
is useless suicide. Colonel Lerris," he con- 
tinued to the grey-haired officer at his side, 
" your men will assault that gun hill. It's 
our only chance." 

At the words the driver suddenly sprang 
back on his engine. Instantly the armoured 
engine blasted out a compression of steam 
that was muffled by the clamour of guns, 
and then, before anyone realized what was 
happening, she began to glide away from the 
little khaki group on the sheltered siding 
towards the battle-front. 

Colonel Lerris sprang forward with a sudden 

The Commander thrust out his arm. 

" Wait," he said. " If the thousandth 
chance happens he'll save your regiment— 
and the Base." 

" The engine will get blown to pieces before 
he even gets there," said Colonel Lerris. 

" It will get smashed — but — he may escape 
just long enough." 

The engine began to gather speed as it surged 
forward. The watching officers caught a 
glimpse of the driver's hatless head as he 
reached up to swing the sheet-steel gate 
across the cab entrance. 

" Anybody know that fellow's name ? " 
suddenly asked Colonel Lerris. 

" Staffield, fiir/ti the Sapper officer. 




" Staffield ? " repeated the Colonel. 

The Sapper nodded. 

" Quite a youngster. Decent-looking chap 
when his face is clean. Clever engineer, too." 

" Good heavens ! " said the Colonel. 

Away on the speeding engine, his steady 
hand on the speed-lever, stood Staffield, his 
eyes gazing steadily through the narrow slit 
in the steel front plates. Coolly he drove 
his engine ahead into a fire inferno that was 
certain to destroy him completely. Without 
the slightest qualm he was deliberately going 
to his death on the bare chance of saving the 
garrison before violent death struck him. 
His mind's vision was focused only on the 
image of a clumsily-joined wire. The rattle 
of rifle-fire suddenly grew louder as the square 
nose of the armoured engine reached the level 
of the reserve trenches, and when the clank 
of plates and panting exhausts chimed into 
the sinister orchestra of the first line of 
resistance the toiling defenders in the trenches 
began to voice their realization of the fact 
that this new element had entered the arena. 

And as Staffield's engine swung round 
across the left front and began to eat up the 
bright steel rails across the centre of the 
fire-zone, the fire of the defence slackened in 
eddies, and only an occasional bullet spattered 
the defence side of the engine, but on the 
other side the armour plates rang in a deafen- 
ing tattoo. But still Staffield stood unmoved 
with his hand on the lever and his eyes 
glaring along the track. 

The deeper roar of the enemy's guns 
slackened curiously, and Staffield knew by 
that pause that his engine would quickly be 
the target. She was not an easy mark as 
she rattled along, but the guns were not far 
away, and as soon as the engine slowed down 
the final juggle with Fate would begin. 

Suddenly Staffield's left hand reached out 
to a handle, and with a gritting of brakes the 
engine began to slow down, and just as she 
stopped dead he touched the throttle, and the 
whistle shrilled out his safe arrival at his goal. 

Swinging aside a hanging plate, he slipped 
quickly to the ground, and on his stomach he 
began to worm his way along between the 
rails. A bang, a crash, and a rattle, and a 
small shell struck the coal-box of the engine. 
One battery had got the range already. 
Slowly, steadily, Staffield worked his way 
along the stony track. 

Now the air began to roar and scream as 
the guns got to work on the target. A giant's 
rataplan of shell fragments and bullets beat 
the still iron. Staffield suddenly stopped 
moving. A shrapnel bullet had seared one 

ear and stunned him for a moment. Again 
he commenced to wriggle. He stopped again. 
Dead flat on the ground, he began to scoop 
away with a steel spanner at the ridge of 
loosened earth that traversed the track. 

In a minute he dropped the spanner and 
worked with his bare hands. An exclamation 
broke from his lips as his fingers closed round 
a wire. A swift pull, and a black wire with a 
frayed end of bright copper was exposed to 
the view of his smarting, dust-filled eyes. 
Again his bleeding fingers scraped and dug. 
Ah ! the other end. He lifted it and strained 
with both hands in an endeavour to connect 
the two sprays of shining strands. They 
wouldn't meet by a hand's length. He took 
up the spanner and rubbed it with earth till 
it shone. And then he curled up the two ends 
of cable and laid the cleaned side of the spanner 
across them. Instantly a mighty rever- 
berating crash swamped the din of the battle- 
field, and away on the small square top of that 
dominating hill, whence those two invincible 
guns had belched forth disaster to the be- 
sieged, a great mound of earth and iron and 
stones was slowly settling beneath a vast 
cloud of dust. 

Four hours later, when the now fangless 
attack had ebbed back to silence, a stretcher 
party and several officers under a white- 
grounded red-cross flag halted near the mangled 
engine. They found Staffield on his back 
between the iron rails, his dark eyes staring 
sightlessly up at the brazen sky, his right 
hand gripping a gleaming steel spanner that 
reflected the sunlight like a heliograph. 

Colonel Lerris and two of his officers stood 
in a terrible silence beside the still figure in 
the bloodstained overalls. On the reckless 
face of the fox-hunting senior subaltern was a 
grey look that a man has only once in life. 
The gaunt brown visage of Edwards — 
Staffield's mess friend — was clamped with an 
iron grief. 

Colonel Lerris spoke, and the voice that 
could make a regiment wince with its cold 
inflexibility shook with suppressed sobs. 

" May God forgive us — our — blindness/' 
he said ; " there was no braver soldier in the 
Service, and — he — died like that to save his 

And now a bright steel engine-spanner 
gleams in the place of honour in the mess of 
the Sixth Lancers. It is surrounded by a 
wreath of laurels enamelled in the colours of 
the regiment and surmounted by the regi- 


The Humours of Winter Sports. 



F all winter sports ski-ing, 
perhaps^ is most fruitful in 
humour. First attempts at 
ski-ing by a somewhat un- 
athletlc novice are a side- 
aching delight for the onlooker. 
There is 

it there looks like a Chinese puzzle. He 
squirms and rolls over and over, but with no 
better result than to achieve a little pas seul 
that might be named £1 the animated snow- 
man/' A further fierce moment of mental 
concentration results in the conclusion that 

a fortune awaiting the 
mus i c - hall hum orist 
who comes home and 
gives a faithful and 
unexaggerated imita- 
tion thereof behind 
the footlights. 

First of all, the 
novice starts to walk 
in the ordinary way, 
with toes turned out. 
As a consequence j his 
long strips of wood 
cross each other at the 
back. He then tries 
to advance that ski 
which is pressed down 
by the upper one, and 
falls on his nose. Then 
the fun realty begins. 
He essays to get up 
by placing his hands on 
the snow, The more 
he presses the deeper 
his arms sink into the 
snow, until he looks 
like Ulysses embracing 
his mother earth. Hav- 
ing coughed some of 
the snow out of his 
mouth, and worked 
his eyelids vigorously 
to shift some of the 
deposit, he sits up 
and looks at his feet. 
They are still there, 
and reason tells him 
that his left foot 
naturally belongs to 
his [eft side, but how r 
to untie the tangle 
of his skis and get 







T -■ — 


il is necessary to get the point of 

the right ski round the back of the 

kit leg. He attempts to put this 

into practice; forcing his legs wider 

and wider apart in the attitude 

known as the " splits." His legs 

being short and his hired skis 

designed for a taller man, he fails of his 

purpose by an inch or two, and lies hack on 

the snow panting, explosive,, and exhausted* It 

was at some such critical moment that a Swiss 

peasant once approached a member of the 

Bar and, doffing his hat, politely requested, 

t( Is it that you can give me a match ? n 

A professional instructor in ski-ing was one 
day giving a lesson to half-a-dozen pupils 
simultaneously, and adopted the plan of 
going in front of them and getting them to 
copy his movements. When he came to the 
bottom of the slope he wished them to make 
a well-known stop-turn, and shouted over his 
shoulder, "Now, please, do a tdemarkl" 
The point of the story lies in the fact that all 
his pupils were strewn down the hillside 
performing sundry antics and acrobatic feats 
unknown to the art of ski-ing. 

To do a telemark is one of the accomplish- 
ments every ski-runner must learn ? being, as 
it is j one of the few effective ways of turning 
and stopping, There are hundreds of jokes 
having this turn as their foundation, 

Here is a common application of it. A 
wild-eyed female novice is flying down a 
slope at an ever-increasing speed* Her arms 
are going like flails ; she can barely keep her 
balance. Suddenly a ditch and fence come 
into view in front of her, right across 
the path of her mad career, Her eyes 
dilate stili farther and her mouth 
opens for a scream. It is then that 
all the witty bystanders with one accord 
yell (l Telemark I " The effect is in- 
stantaneous ; the runaway promptly 
sits down, burrows her way violently 
into the snow, and is brought up on 
the brink of the obstacle. 
Two Englishmen once 
set out from Villars to ski 
over to Mont ana , three 
days' hard work. On the 
way a solitary Frenchman 
on skis was met who, with- 
out so much as a by- you r- 
leave, calmly attached 
himself to the party, Un- 
fortunately, his ability as 
a ski-runner was consider- 
ably less than his outfit 
suggested, for he fairly 
bristled with impedimenta 
— great rucsack, climbing 
rope, crampons, and 
enormous snow - goggles 
that covered the greater 
part of his face like a 
mullioned window* Every 
hint dropped that his room was preferable 
to his company ^ and that he was causing 
considerable delay, proved unavailing. He 
hung on grimly. On coming to the next 
steep slope the Frenchman, in order to make up 
for his lack of skill downhill, kept so close to 
the Englishman in front of him that he 
constantly trod on one of his skis. This, of 
course, is very bad form, and worse than 
driving into the couple ahead at golf. For a 
time the Englishman suffered in silence. At 
last it could he borne no longer. Turning 
round, and shaking his fist in the much-be- 
goggled countenance of the culprit, the irate 
Englishman bawled, " If you do that again ; 
I'll break every pane of glass in your face." 

On one occasion, when a well-known English 
ski-er wSsciBMl t#ftH a guide, the former 
re^k^&I^SFiWIg^lA^ coax back the 



circulation to his frost-bitten toes, and 
laid it on the snow beside him. Raising his 
eyes at an ejaculation from his guide, he was 
horrified to see his boot rapidly shooting 
down the mountain-side. The guide's remarks 
on restoring him his boot after a descent of 
some hundred feet were worth hearing, if not 
quite fit to repeat, 

An early morning expedition up the 
Chamossaire to s*e ihe sun rise once furnished 
a little adventure that had in it elements of 
tragedy, corned y , and h u mi 1 i a I i om The party 
consisted of a man and two ladies, Nearing 
the top of the climb ihe party paused to rest 
and to look back. One of the ladies 
pointed out a dark object on the snow 
some little way beneath them. She 
was certain it had moved \ something 
or someone was following them, 

" Why not a bear ? " said the man. 
11 But are there bears in Switzer- 
land ? " eagerly asked both the ladies 
at once. 

What a chance for a practical joke, 
thought the man. He assured them 
that ^ of course f there were. Did not 
the Swiss peasants carve more bears 
out of wood than any Other animal ? 
Obviously, the bear was as much the 
national wild beast of Switzerland as 
the lion was of Africa or the tiger of 
India* As they moved up the slope, 
with frequent backward glances, the 
object ever grew larger, drew nearer. 
It was following them ? and it was a 
bear ! Fear seized the ladies. Their 
predicament was an alarming one. 
Behind them a bear, therefore no 
retreat in that direction ; a hundred 
ftct in front of them the narrow 
plateau forming the summit of the 
Chamossaire, and beyond that a sheer 
drop of several thousand feet, What 
could they do ? It was decided that 
the party should spread out, the man 
nobly occupying the centre position , 
which he declared would be the objec- 
tive of the bear's attack; bears always 
come straight on. But just at this 
interesting crisis the sun rose, the light 
dawned, and the truth was rapidly 
revealed. The bear was the dark top 
of a fir-tree, which grew larger, and 
so appeared to come nearer, the higher 
the party got above it. 

41 And in the rii^ht, imagining some fear, 
How easy is n bush supposed a bear,'* 

appropriately quoted the now laughing "soop t 
cavalier, ye 

The sport of curling is a rich mine of 
humour, and to its devotees a perpetual 
delight. . But, like many other sports, its best 
humour is intelligible only to the curler. 
The directions which a brawny Scotch skip 
bawls to his crew are worthy of preservation 
in their entirety. 

Should he desire a stone to be sent up which 
will just touch another, instead of saying so 
in plain language, it will be something like 
this : " Now, Wullie, dae ye see that stane ? 
Jest ye send me up a bonny little gel to crack 
an egg on it — a pigeon's egg, ye ken. But 
howd yer hand, Wullie," 


MON, SOOP 1 AH,QBJgJCI£kfjl0raAT S<""-iplK\ 




If a stone is not going as fast or as far as 
the skipper wishes, then the order is given to 
sweep it. By the means of besoms every 
particle of powdered ice or snow is swept out 
of the path of the oncoming stone, and a con- 
siderable difference in 
its " life " can thus 
be effected. Sweep- 
ings or M scoping," is 
therefore a very 
important thing* 

During a curling 
Bon spiel at Kand er- 
st eg a very exciting 
match was being 
played between two 
rival Scotch teams. 
Things were getting 
very close, and every 
stone was of import- 

One skipper, de- 
sirous of guarding a 
stone which was well 
placed in the centre 
of the " house/' in- 
structed his man to 
send a stone so that 
it stopped some way 
from it ; and so pre- 
\ented it from being 
knocked away by the 
eftemy. The stone 
was well " laid/' and 
quite straight, but 
it was questionable 
whether it would go 
quite far enough, so 
the order was issued 
to sweep. v 

(t I like it, I like 
it ! " yelled the ex- 
cited skip, " Bring 
it; soop all ye ken/' 
Then as the stone 
began to die, " Soop, 
mon, SOOP! Ah, 
ye no call that soop- 
in\ Ye 're nae but just ticklin' ther eece." 

On another occasion a guard was required, 
but the luckless player sent his stone down so 
keen that it not only ran too far ? but knocked 
the stone it was meant to guard right out of 
the "house," and spun out itself. The skip 
was beyond speech. His shaggy eyes burnt 
holes in his luckless number three, 

lt Ah, Lomas, thank God yer father no 
lived to see this day, mom He could put his 
gravestone down better than that," 


But if a Scotch skip is facetious in his con- 
demnation, he is sublime in his praise- He 
has asked for an almost impossibly difficult 
shot. And here it should be said that, 
although some of us think we can curl a bit, 

to see some of the 
wonderful bits of 
judgment and skill 
displayed by a canny 
crofter puts the best 
of us to shame* In 
obedience to the 
chief's request f the 
stone is sent down 
straight and true, 
with just enough 
curl on to go round 
another stone and 
achieve the appa- 
rently impossible, A 
perfect shot, The skip 
solemnly advances 
to meet his faithful 
henchman 7 and 
grasping him by both 
hands looks with 
pride into his eyes. 

M Mon/' he says, 
" ye're a curler," 

The most extrava- 
gapt dream of lofty 
ambition can attain 
to nothing higher 
than this. 

The humours of 
skating are chiefly 
spectacular. The 
evolutions of the be- 
ginner and the gyra- 
tions of the man who 
is really a beginner 
but imagines himself 
something of an ex- 
pert are funnier to 
watch than describe, 
A certain young 
lady had the repu- 
tation of being 
excessively shy, and yet, when in the throes 
of learning to skate, she so far forgot 
her native shyness that she made quite a 
habit of clinging affectionately to any stable 
male form in her vicinity. The story goes 
that she was such an exceedingly pretty 
young lady that she was invariably to be seen 
with a strong following of the eligible male, 
each imbued with the hope that in her next 



While waiting at Lauterbrunnen Station a 
►arty of gentlemen, strangers to each other, 
yere discussing some knotty point in figure- 
kating. One little colonel, anxious to prove 
hat he was right, blurted out, " Look here, 
[ don't like talking about it, but I got through 
Tiy tests last year, so I ought to know what 
t*m talking about," The quiet, distinguished- 
ouking man opposed to him in argument 
replied ? " I also hate talking about it." As a 
matter of fact his name was Grenander. The 
peppery little colonel on learning this was 
forced to admit the possibility of a world's 
champion knowing more than himself* 

Ice carnivals are one of the attractions at 
all sports centres. Scarcely a carnival but 
some wag dresses himself up to represent 
" Winter Sport." The most usual rendering 
is a creation like a much-wounded soldier 
fresh from the battle-field with wounds 
all dressed and features adorned with 

Mention of carnivals calls to mind the 
balls and dances which are almost nightly 
the indoor amusement at all hotels, A 
very humorous thing once happened at 
one of these places. The waiters, Swiss, 
Germans, or French, anyway fools, top- 
dressed the ballroom floor with soap- 
powder instead of French chalk. The - 

warm feet of the dancers worked up a 

fine frothy lather, 

and the hall-room 

floor rapidly took 

on a surface that 

appealed to the 

heart of every 

ski-er present. 
The humour of 

winter sports 

becomes evident 

as soon as you 

get outside your 

hotel in the morn- 
ing/ To hasten 

your arrival at 

the rink, you 

decide to do the 

short, steep jour- 
ney on a luge. 

You sling your 

skates and boots 

round your neck 

and distribute 

your lunch about 

and around your 

person. The black 

bottle containing 

—well ; your cold 

tea, is difficult of distribution. You hug it to 
you the best way you can. Hampered by 
your commissariat ? and a novice at the game, 
you fail to negotiate the sharp corner half-way 
down the run. Over you go T skates, black 
bottle, and food packages flying in different 
directions ! 

As you lie on your undignified back the 
warning cry of "Gate, gavel** sounds close at 
hand. Another party of lugers is coming 
down the run. You just have time to drag 
yourself and luge out of the way, and see 
part of your precious lunch swept away into 
the distance. If it is not humour to you, the 
gods, at least, enjoy a hearty laugh. 

A certain gilded youth came up from the 
Riviera to St. Moritz and must needs have a 
shot at the Cresta Run. It was in January, 
so the run had been built up only so far as 


at Moaxjt carlo i Origin a I from 



Stream Corner, He arrived at the start 
arrayed in full kit T rakes ^ knee and elbow pads, 
and all the rest of it. He made a moderately 
good start, but soon his steed began to side- 
slip. He cannoned from one bank to the 
other in a most sickly manner, but somehow 
managed to stick to it. He succeeded in 
getting as far as the railway-bridge, but, 
taking the 
banking there 
too late, flew 
up to the top, 
scraped along 
a lew yards j 
and then came 
a most " un- 
holy purler " 
amidst a 
shower of ice 
and snow. 
When he had 
recovered con- 
sufficiently to 
be asked his 
opinion on 
he replied, 
" I don't know 
much about 
it ? but it's a 
dashed sight 
easier to break 
the bank at 
St, M o r i t z 
than at Monte 
Carlo ! " 

On a bob- 
sleigh the 
man in front 
steers and 
while the one 
behind has a 
brake to look 

On one occa- 
sion a party 
were nego- 
tiating a 
road. Seeing 
a short cut 
which would 
save a ditour 
the steers- 
man turned off 
down it. All 

went well until the track grew steeper anc 
more bumpy at every yard. After flyinj 
over one immense boulder the pace became 
too hot, even for the well-known jockey whi 
acted as steersman, and he shouted to thi 
man behind , " Brake, you fool ? brake i ' 
Hearing no response, and noticing an evei 
greater acceleration oE the bob, he tumec 

round anc 
saw the brakes 
man somi 
way behind u[ 
in the air ir 
what lookec 
like an at 
tempt to out- 
Pegoud Pe- 
goud I 

It is extra- 
ordinary the 
skill some of 
the Swiss pea- 
sants show In 
the manage- 
ment of their 
luges. One of 
the writers of 
this article 
well remem- 
bers seeing, 
many yea r s 
ago, a whole 
string of vil- 
lagers speeding 
down from 
V i 1 1 a r s to 
Ollon on their 
luges. One 
young fellow 
was carrying 
his wife on his 
lap, and she 
was holding a 
big basket 
of eggs. * He 
must needs let 
go his hold of 
the luge— and 
this . was at 
the steepest 
and narrowest 
part of the 
road— take off 
his capj and, 
balancing the 
whole lot. flew 
swiftly past us 
laughing and 
li wooing I" 

; lrfltoHWtTH6 MAX BEHIXlJjQliok^ltfdWITtoO^ 

BkAKa Diversity of Michigan 
















iostI kksistheht TEvpini-'E." 

5. — " IT IS PATE, AND 

{L — "l TELU THE 
3L1JNAT1C E * 


Mr. Harry Rountree's Picture Story of the foreign gjutlcman on a ski-ingf 
trip whom the great Jogs of St. Bernard persisted! iu treating ao a lost traveller, 

VqL ilviL-31, 


By J. J. BELL. 

Illustrated by 
\Varwick Reynolds. 

May afternoon 
fell warmt y 
upo n a red- 
roofed , white- 
walled cottage 
set in a mar- 
ket - garden and upon the 
figure of an old man labouring 
there. It fell also, but less cor- 
dial l\ r j so one might imagine* 
upon a young man in fine 
linen and fashionable cloth 
who stepped from the cottage 
porch j a frown between 
his eyes, vexation at his 

At the young man's 
approach the old man 
raised his grizzled head, 
his back, 
and smiled. Rusting one 
tanned and weather- 
hand on the 
spade, with 
the other he 
wiped the 
sweat from 
his brow. 

64 W e e 1 , 
Davie?" he 
said, in mild 

li h/' 
came the 
answer « "it's 




no use talking to mother. She simply won't 
. see reason," 

" Is it maybe no* jist your reason she canna 
f see ? " the old man asked, gently. 

M It's plain to me that you and mother 
have made up your minds to reject what I 
offer you," With a glance at the hedge 
separating the garden from the public road, 
David Forres continued in a lower voice, 
" But I thought you might have seen reason 
in my suggestion. It's time mother was taking 
things easier. She ought to be in a modern 
house \.ith modern conveniences, and have a 
servant or two to do the hard work* And 
you ought— — " 

" Davie , lad/ 5 said the old man, "I'm no* 
sayin' onything against modern conveniences 
— for modern folk; but Fm sure yer 
mi the r would never thole a servant In the 
hoose." Suddenly : " Did ye ever see yer 
rnither lookin 1 abler ? "' 

u Oh, I admit she is wonderfully fit — at 
present/' David Forres paused for a moment, 
41 Come, now, father/' he resumed, ''.what is 
your own particular objection to removing 
to Laburnum Villa ? 7J 

The old man hesitated, then waved his 
hand in comprehensive fashion, as if to remind 
his son of these two acres surrounding the 
cottage — acres sown and planted with vege- 
tables and fruits and flowers, and supporting 
several glasshouses wherein at the moment 
his two assistants were working. 

" I've lived on it and lived by it for five- 
and-thirty year/' he said at last. 

"But you don't need to earn money now. 
You want a garden to amuse yourself in. 
You know what a splendid garden there is at 
Laburnum Villa, and you could do anything 
you liked with it." 

John Forres shook his head. " But — but, 
Davie, it's no 1 three year since ye bought this 
garden and cottage to save us payin' rent." 

David gave a rueful, almost angry, laugh. 
" So you won't leave the garden, and mother 
won't leave the cottage ! n 

The other eyed his spade. " I wouldna 
like to leave the cottage either. Five-and- 
thirty year since yer rnither and me set up 
hoose in it. It's seen a' oor joys and a' oor 
griefs. And " — he raised his eyes with a 
twinkle in them — " it's been the birthplace 
o J a vera clever and important man ! n 

David shrugged his shoulders* ' £ You mean 
a man who gets his gift to his parents thrown 
back at him ! " he said. 

M Na, na, Davie ! M cried the father, quickly. 
** Ye're no' to say that ! Never 1 If this 
had happened twenty year eariier, I wouldna 
say but what we would ha'e jumped at 
it. But we're ower auld noo- — no' ower auld 
to dae the day's work, but ower auld to 
change it," He sighed and smiled. * ( The 
auld hoose for the auld folk — aye, that's it, 
lad t— the auld hoose for the auld folk ! M 
1 - ( David was touched, but in more ways than 
one. He turned away, and for a space stood 
staring at a big house on the hillside — the 
house he had admired as a child and coveted as 
a youth — the house he had sworn, as a young 
man, to possess some day — the house that 
circumstances and his own amazing success 
in business had permitted him to buy six 
months ago for a summer residence. There 
it was, square and handsome and creamy white 
in the sunshine, almost ready now for the 
mistress whom he would bring to it a month 

The old eyes followed the young. 

David swung slowly round, his gaze earth- 
wards. " I'm beginning to think I've made a 
mistake/' he said, " It will be too absurd 
my living up there while you are— here. 
Don't you see the incongruity, the — the— — 
oh, I've no word far it ! If you had only liked 
the idea ^j^^^Hl^ is **■ 



as good a house as mine, only smaller, every- 
thing would have been all right. Now " 

David threw out his hands in a gesture of 

" But I canna see what ye're vexed aboot," 
said John Forres, his countenance troubled. 
" The wee auld hoose suits us fine, and it's 
jist as natural as natural that a modern young 
man and woman like you and Miss Carlisle 
should be wantin' modern conveniences. But 
ye can tell her, if she wants a guid dish o' 
tea, jist to slip doon to her mither-in-law." 

David smiled in spite of himself. " All 
right, I'll tell her/ 7 he said, and looked at 
his watch. " Four o'clock. I must catch the 
four-twenty from the junction." 

Presently they parted. 

John Forres, leaning on the gate, watched 
the tall, smart figure as far as the long stretch 
of straight road permitted. He was turning 
away when a neighbour, coming from the 
other direction, accosted him. 

" Fine weather, John. I suppose yer son'll 
ha'e been tellin' ye aboot his latest invest- 
ment ? " 

" Maybe," said John, cautiously, " maybe. 
He tells me many a thing, Peter." 

" I meant aboot Laburnum Villa. He 
didna get it that cheap, either. Seeven 
hundred and fifty pound." 

John stared. " Laburnum Villa ? Seeven 
hundred and fifty pound ? " 

" Oho ! So he didna tell ye ! Weel, I got 
it frae the postman, and the postman got it 
frae Sir Kenneth's factor ; so it's true enough. 
What's yer son wantin' the villa for ? " 

For a moment or two the old man was 
speechless. Regaining command of himself 
he answered with some dignity : " I've nae 
doobt he'll tell us when it suits him to tell us. 
I dare say he forgot a' aboot it the day — he's 
that mony investments, as ye say, to think 
aboot." Abruptly he moved off. 

He made straight for the cottage. In the 
kitchen his wife cried out at the sight of his 

" Grade, he's bought Laburnum Villa ! " 

" Bought it ! Havers, man ! " 

" But he has ! Seeven hundred and fifty 
pound ! " 

Mrs. Forres gasped. " Did Davie tell ye 
that ? " 

Her husband shook his head. " I heard it 
after he was awa'. I wish I hadna. But, 
Gracie " — he smote his fist on the table — 
" yer son's a gentleman, if ever there was 
one. He didna tell us he had bought the 
Villa, because he kenned it would ha'e forced 
us to tak' the gift ! D'ye see ? " 

" Aye ; I see," she said, slowly. Her eyes 
filled with tears. " Oh, John, we've been a 
sair disappintment to oor son this day ! " 

John walked over to the grandfather clock 
and studied its face intently. " We'll ha'e 
to keep what we ken a secret frae him/' he 
said. " I suppose that's a' we can dae." 

<; I suppose it is," she agreed, hopelessly. 

But in their hearts they knew it was not 
all they could do, and when the night came, 
and the last hour at the fireside was closing, 
their hearts betrayed them. 

And Gracie got pen, ink, and paper, and, 
prompted by John, wrote a letter to David, 
telling him that, having changed their minds, 
they would like to accept his splendid present 
and spend the rest of their years in Laburnum 

In the fullness of his relief, and without 
bothering the old people (as he put it to him- 
self), David proceeded to redecorate and 
furnish Laburnum Villa from top to bottom. 
It is possible that he " overdid it " in some 
respects ; certainly he left no vacant spaces. 
In the case of his own house, neither decora- 
tion nor furnishing had been done without 
the suggestions and approval of his fiancte, to 
whom he had submitted elaborate plans of 
every room. But now his anxiety to see his 
parents installed in their new home before 
the date of his marriage argued that there was 
not time to take another's opinions and advice. 
Besides, he was inclined to be autocratic — a 
not unnatural result of his having become the 
head of a great business at the age of thirty- 

Not until the day before that fixed for the 
removal did John and Gracie see the inside 
of their future residence. In the afternoon 
David conducted them through it. Without 
a doubt they were impressed, as their son had 
wanted them to be. They gazed at the high 
ceilings and the smooth, unsullied walls dis- 
tempered in delicate shades, the bright 
Turkey and Indian rugs and the modern 
furniture, the newest in fire-places and 
sanitary improvements. But their feet moved 
gingerly, their hands touched nothing. And 
their speech was confined to rare murmurs of 
solemn, even awe-inspired, admiration. 

When the inspection was over they sat 
awhile in the parlour — David had had the 
wit to dispense with a drawing-room — and a 
young maid in the latest cap and apron 
brought tea. 

" I canna say I'm extra hungry," remarked 
Mr. Forres, after finishing the thin bread and 








" Light your pipe, father," said his son, 

" What ? Can I get smokin* here ? " 

" Can he ? " asked Mrs. Forres, anxiously. 

" Why, it's your house," said David, 
smiling on them both. " How's the tea, 
mother ? " 

The old woman hesitated, and gently 
replied, " The lassie'll learn." 

" Mind you teach her, then, and be strict 
with her." 

" Me ? Oh, I forgot she gaed wi' the 
hoose." Mrs. Forres looked down at the 
delicate china on the lap of her Sabbath gown. 

His pipe seemed to give the old man 
confidence. " I've been wondering Davie," 
he said, looking round the room, " where 
we're to put a' the things frae the auld 

" Well," said David, " if there's any little 
odd thing you particularly wish to have 
from the old place, you can just bring it 
along to-morrow. You see, I didn't want 
you and mother to be bothered with a general 
upheaval, and I propose that you just step 
up here to-morrow, at the hour that suits you, 
and settle down at once." 

There was silence until Mr. Forres said, 
in a lower voice than usual, " I see." He 
glanced at his wife, but her eyes were still 
lowered. " I see," he said again. Then, 
diffidently, " And will ye be for sellin' the — 
the auld hoose, Davie ? " 

David smiled. " I was going to tell you 
that Ruth has forbidden me to sell the house 
I was born in." 

For an instant Mrs. Forres looked up. 
" Did she say that ? " she cried, softly, and 
from that moment loved the girl she had not 
yet seen. 

Though David's acquaintance with Ruth 
extended over several years, his engagement 
to her had been a short one. Her home 
being in London accounted for the fact that 
she and her future parents-in-law had not met. 
David had been wholly honest with her 
regarding his birth, his parents, and his 
simple home-life ; and his honesty was not 
that of the man who merely brags of a humble 
origin. Nevertheless, he was no sooner 
engaged than he sought to induce the old 
people to make the great change in their 
mode of life. Whatever motives dwelt at 
the back of his mind, there was a human 
enough foreboding in front. The tattling 
tongues of one's native village, the raised 
eyebrows of one's friends, are not easily to be 

Early in July, David and Ruth returned 
from the honeymoon. It had been David's 
wish that only his parents should be present 
to welcome them home. 

" Surely, Davie, lad, we'll be there! " Mr. 
Forres had declared, heartily, almost bois- 
terously, and was a little annoyed with his 
spouse because she had merely nodded and 
said, " 'Deed, aye, Davie," in a timid whisper- 
But now, as they sat close together in the 
hall of the big house, listening for the sound 
of a motor, it was not she who faltered. 

" Dinna be feart, John, man," she whispered, 
" It'll be a' right. We'll no' need to bide 
long once they're here. We'll jist break the 
shortbreid, and wish them great joy, and 
tak' a dish o' tea wi' them ; and then we'll 
awa' " — she nearly said " hame " — '* to 
Laburnum Villa." 

" Oh, I'm feart she'll no' like us," groaned 
Mr. Forres, " and I feel like a perfec' mounte- 
bank in this lang coat, and I dinna like the 
look o' the servants, and ma boots is hurtin' 
me something terrible." 

" Weel, weel, John," she returned, sooth- 
ingly, " I dare say ye're sufferin',but ye needna 
be afraid o' Davie's wife." 

Ruth will never know what a great thing 
she did when she begged her lover not to part 
with the house of his birth. Through weeks 
of doubts and dreads and the awful strange- 
ness of everything, an old woman had almost 
lived on the memory of her lightly reported 

And the old woman had not deceived 
herself. The motor arrived, the young 
couple appeared, and then — a girl's good 
heart and kind hands did the rest. There 
was awkwardness, of course, but it was not of 
the painful sort, nor did it linger. 

Here was, without doubt, the happiest day" 
Mr. and Mrs. Forres had spent since leaving 
the " auld hoose " — or was it the only really 
happy one ? 

For that evening, at least, they forgot or 
ignored the grandeurs of Laburnum Villa. 

Ruth would have been more — or less — than 
human had she found nothing to smile at in 
her new relations and their ways. "But the 
amusement at her lips often meant a little 
ache in her throat. 

On her first visit, which she paid alone, to 
Laburnum Villa, she forestalled and pleased 
the old people by asking to be shown over the 
house. There was no doubting their readi- 
ness, pra^|(pgeTiiess,'|±p-g^diibit each room, 
cupboard, and nook. Mrs. Forres was almost 



talkative over the linen and china, while her 
husband dilated, as one who had honestly- 
sought to master the subject, upon the 
iS modern conveniences." Yet now and then 
would fall a silence, abrupt and heavy. Ruth 
was not slow to perceive that here was no 
pride of possession, no joy of attainment. 
The man handled things cautiously, the 
woman fondled nothing. Yet pride there 
was, and even joy — pride and joy in the son 
who had given so much. Somehow the 
realization of this jarred Ruth more than did 
certain rather glaring errors of taste in the 

" Ye would notice that everything's new/' 
said Mr. Forres, breaking a silence that had 
lasted throughout the slow descent of the 
stairs and the passage to the parlour. 

" And o' the best," Mrs. Forres quickly 
added. " Davie has made a braw hoose for 
us. There's no' another in the place to touch 
it, except yer ain. And we're rale comfort- 
able, are we no', Jflhn ? " 

" Oh, terriMe comfortable ! Ye'll tell Davie 
that, will ye no', Miss — Mistress Ruth ? " 

** Just Ruth, please." The young woman 
smiled, but her mind was at a loss. " Surely 
those brass candlesticks are not new ? " she 
said, indicating the pair on the mantelpiece. 

" Na," replied the old man ; " they're frae 
the auld hoose. Davie said we was to bring 

onything we fancied, but " He halted. 

" We didna ken where to put them," said 
Mrs. Forres, smoothing out a crease in her 

" Ye see, Mistress — I mean Ruth," said 
John, " we've never been back at the auld 
hoose since we cam' here. There — there's 
been naething to tak' us back. It's no' on the 
road to the shops, and it's no' on the road to 
the kirk, and — onyway, we've never been 
back. We're fine and comfortable here — eh, 

She nodded with unnecessary emphasis — 
so it seemed to the visitor. 

" You know," said Ruth, gently, " you 
know I want to see David's old home — inside, 
I mean. I've always wanted to see it, since 
he told me about it. Some day will you show 
it to me ? " 

" Surely " began the old man, stopped 

short, and looked at his wife. 

She was stiH smoothing out that crease. 
" Some day — some day, maybe," she mur- 
mured. " But Davie has the key. We 
thought it was best for him to keep it." 

"Then I'll ask him for it," said Ruth, 
lightly, and thereupon changed the subject. 
Was it possible that they were ashamed of 

the old home, she wondered, but not for long. 
There was no snobbery in these old people. 
Was there, then, some tragedy connected 
with the cottage they seemed so unwilling to 
behold again ? That question, too, was soon 
answered in the negative. 

On her next visit to Laburnum Villa, Ruth 
began to suspect the truth ; a few more 
meetings with the old people, and she believed 
she had grasped it. When she asked her 
husband for the key of the cottage, he gave it 
her with the laughing advice to get his mother 
to act as guide and retailer of the authentic 
history of each household god. " By this 
time," he added, " I fancy a mere glimpse 
of the old place will send mother and father 
back in a hurry to the once-despised modern 

Ruth, however, kept the fact of her owner- 
ship of the key to herself, and, strangely 
enough, found herself shrinking from using it. 

On an afternoon in September she entered 
the garden of Laburnum Villa with the object 
of taking the old people home with her to tea. 
Mr. and Mrs. Forres never went to their son's 
house without an escort. A written invitation 
was not enough. Alone they could not face 
the well-trained servant who would open the 
door. Only under the wing of David or Ruth 
did they have courage to approach the big 

Rounding the old yew-tree, half-way up 
the trim gravel path, Ruth came upon her 
father-in-law. He was doing something to a 
bed of chrysanthemums, and it was plain, 
even to her inexperienced eyes, that he worked 
half-heartedly. At the sight of her, however, 
his expression lost its dullness, and he rose 
eagerly from his stooping posture. 

" It's a lang time since ye've been here, 
lassie," he remarked, affectionately. 

" Three days ago ! " she laughed. " We've 
had visitors, you know." 

" I was forgettin' that. Ye'll be gaun in to 
see her ? " He wagged his head in the 
direction of the house. " Weel, I'll jist put on 
ma coat and come wi' ye." 

" But you don't want to stop your work 

" Ach ! " he exclaimed, impatiently ; " it's 
no' worth workin' at." Next moment he 
laid an apologetic finger on her arm. " But 
it'll be a fine garden yet. Be sure and tell 
Davie I said it, Ruth. It'll be a fine garden 

"I sha'n't forget," she replied. " But 
can't you tell me what is wrong with the 
garden now ? 



With his shabby jacket half on his shoulders 
he looked around him in a helpless, searching 
fashion. His hand went to his forehead and 
rubbed it as if to allay some mental irritation. 
At last he said, slowly, " 'Deed, it's no' easy 
to say what's wrang wi' the garden. Maybe 
it's me that's no' used to it. I'll surely like 
it fine — when I get used to it. 'Deed, aye ! 
But it's a queer thing. Will I tell ye a secret, 
Ruth ? " 

" Mease." 

" Weel, I canna — it's an awfu' queer thing 
—but I canna praise the Lord in this garden ! " 

She barely checked her exclamation of 

" But, mind," he went on, quickly, " it's a 
secret. Ye're no' to tell Davie — nor ye're no' 
to tell her, either." He glanced at the house, 
and saw his wife at the window. " Come, 
lassie, we'll gang to her. She'll no' be pleased 
at me keepin' ye, and " — he sighed — " she 
hasna been extra blithe the last twa-three 

" Do you think she's not so well ? " Ruth 
asked, with an effort. 

" Oh, I wouldna say that. But her and the 
servant dinna seem to get on, and there's 
other things — but I suppose it'll come right 
in time. I shouldna ha'e spoke aboot it." 

Ruth took his arm and pressed it. " You 
can tell me anything, you know, dear," she 

" I believe that's true," he agreed. " Maybe 
ye could get her to tell ye what's vexin' her, 
for I'm thinkin' there's something she doesna 
tell me. So maybe I'll no' come in jist yet, 
and that'll let ye get a crack wi' her. It's 
been kin' o' — deefficult the last twa-three days, 

His wife was at the door now, and he 
managed to smile and wave his hand as he 
turned back to the chrysanthemums. 

Ruth quickly perceived that her mother-in- 
law was not desirous of going out that after- 
noon, and her invitation remained unuttered. 
It was not long until Mrs. Forres, of her own 
accord, mentioned the trouble with the maid, 
but hardly in the way that her husband's 
words had led Ruth to expect. 

" I'm no' blamin' her," she made haste to 
continue. " This is no' the place for a young 
lass. It's ower quiet for her, wi' naebody in 
the hoose but us twa auld bodies ; and there's 
no' enough work for her and me. But her 
and me ha'e made it up noo, and we'll jist 
thole each other in the meantime. And, 
dearie, ye'll no' say onything to Davie, will 
ye ? For we're rale comfortable here." 

If Ruth looked then for further and deeper 

confidences, she was to be disappointed. Yc 
the hostess's face betrayed a sad spirit 
more than once there were tears in her eye 
— for no spoken reason. Ruth could doub 
her own instincts no longer. This old woma 
was simply eating her heart out. She was a 
much at home as she would have been in th 
drawing-room of a grand hotel. And whei 
the old man joined them it was pathetic t 
see how the twain avoided each other's eyes. 

On reaching home Ruth found she had ai 
hour to fill before David's arrival. He wai 
working hard these days. 

After some hesitation she went out again 
carrying the big key David had given her anc 
remembering his smile. The dusk was begin- 
ning to fall when she placed it in the green 
door of the white cottage. The men whom 
David continued to employ in his father's 
old market-garden had gone home. 

Ruth opened the door, entered and closed 
it behind her. She became wrapped, as it 
were, in the stillness. Unconsciously she 
moved on tip-toe. She turned first to the left 
and found herself in a small parlour. Swiftly 
her eyes took in the haircloth furniture, the 
faded carpet, the brighter jute hearthrug, the 
dark green cloth covering the little round 
table that bore on its centre a yellow-brown 
woolly mat with a glass case containing waxen 
fruits of hectic complexions ; the narrow 
mantelpiece with its grotesquely " beautiful " 
china ornaments, the high mahogany chest of 
drawers, the lace curtains — all so orderly 
that the mistress might well have been there 
that day, but for the contrary evidence of a 
thin dust everywhere. 

Off the parlour opened a tiny bedroom. 
Ruth recollected David's telling her how, on 
later visits, he had occupied it, although his 
own room — the room of his boyhood — was in 
the loft. She peeped into the tiny chamber, 
perceived that nearly everything in it was 
very white and smelled of lavender, sighed, 
and stole from the parlour. The way to the 
loft was little better than a ladder, but that 
did not deter her. 

Presently she stood in the loft, or rather in 
a portion of it that had been partitioned off. 
There was little head room. The skylight 
was small ; now it barely sufficed for an 
examination of her surroundings. A narrow 
bed with a patchwork counterpane, an old 
wooden trunk, a small mirror on the wall that 
had evidently been papered by an amateur, a 
framed text, " God is Love," a press of painted 
deal, a table with a f rmged white cover, and on 
it a boys boat rudely carved from a block of 



wood and painted a bright blue, a couple of 
tattered school books, a pair of childish little 
clogs. . . . 

11 Oh, surely/' thought Ruth, " she wanted 
to come back for these ! pl Ruth was not 
thinking of David at all just then. But a 
minute later, preparing to descend 7 she paused 

old people had never ventured back — back 
from that new house crammed with things 
still unfamiliar to their sight and touch, and 
things they would never use at all, to this old 
home with the few and simple things they had 
known and handled and cared for through 
five-and-thtrty years — back only for a glimpse 

"and now.she was fingering them, fondling them— the dear, worthless treasuries 

she had lost and found," 

to touch, as with a caress, the patchwork 
counterpane where the pillow raised it. 

She was scarce over the kitchen threshold 
when the final and most poignant revelation 
of all came to her. Perhaps it came simply 
from that empty, tidied hearth, with the 
empty arm-chair on its right, the empty, low 
nursing-chair on its left. For her eyes could 
have seen little else ere her heart filled with 
understanding, Oh, now she knew why the 

VoL xlviL-32, 

or two of all they had unconsciously loved, 
all they had abandoned. They were afraid 
— that was it — afraid for each other's sake, 
for their son's sake, to come back. Rather 
than offend David by a breakdown they 
would struggle on in Laburnum Villa 
until , . . 

Ruth was not a woman who wept readily. 
She set her lips, she clenched her hands. . . . 

It was ^i^^r^ilSftW^ f0rth - 



That night she poured out her heart to 
her husband. 

A week later Mr. and Mrs. Forres spent an 
afternoon at the big house, and Ruth insisted 
on taking them home in the car. Darkness 
had fallen. 

" It's going on to the junction to fetch a 
parcel," she explained, in answer to her father- 
in-law's protest against bringing out the car 
for so short a distance. " I wish it were to 
meet David/' she added, with a sigh. " He 
won't be home till ten. It's perhaps as well 
that we are going to town at the end of the 

The old people made no remark. What 
would they do at Laburnum Villa all the 
winter without her ? This was their new 

" David thinks we shall come here for a 
week or two at Christmas. I hope so." 
Ruth had already made the remark several 
times during the afternoon. 

11 Ye'll be terrible welcome," said Mr. 
Forres, with an effort. 

" Oh, ma dearie ! " whispered Mrs. Forres. 
" Could ye no' come afore then, and bide for 
twa-three days at the Villa ? " 

The car emerged from the avenue. 

" He's takin' the wrang road," Mr. Forres 

" No, he understands. I told him," Ruth 

Mr. Forres lay back satisfied. Whatever 
Ruth did was right. 

But four minutes later the car drew up at 
the gate of the cottage. Ruth did not give 
her companions time to speak. 

" I want you to show me the house David 
was born in," she said, quickly. " I can't 
wait any longer. I — I'm afraid David will 
be dreadfully offended if you don't show it 
me. He's always asking if you have done 
so." It was the cruellest thing she could have 
said, but it served her purpose. 

As they passed through the gate which the 
chauffeur held open John took a grip of his 
wife's arm. They went up the path in silence 
until Ruth, going in front, said, casually : — 
f " I knew you would do what I asked, my 
dears, so I had the lamps lit." 

They did not appear to hear ; slowly, reluct- 
antly, with bowed heads, they followed her 
to the door. 

" Please open it. I don't think it's locked," 
said Ruth. 

The old man hung back. 

" John, dear," said his wife, " it's Ruth 
that's asking ye." 

He turned the handle. " God ! " he whis- 
pered. " The nock's goin' ! " 

As the door swung back he and his spouse 
were pushed gently but firmly inwards. , 

They stood blinking in the kitchen — blink- 
ing at the leaping, glowing fire, the bright 
lamp, the table laid for supper, the old clock 
with its jerking seconds-hand, and the smaller, 
familiar objects, including the brass candle- 
sticks which a few hours ago had stood in 
Laburnum Villa. 

" I think you'll find everything you need 
for to-night," they heard their daughter-in-law 
say. " The house has been fired for a week. 
And there's a letter on the table from your 
Davie. Oh, my dears, be at home — be happy ! " 

But still they blinked, and when at last 
they turned she was gone. 

Throughout the night fell heavy rain, but 
the morning broke clear and joyous. 

There was only pure disappointment in 
David's spirit as he opened the gate. Some 
resentment might have been excused, for the 
man had done much to no purpose, his well- 
intentioned scheme had proved a pitiable 
failure ; and down in the village, he guessed, ; 
gossip was already raging furiously. But 
David had learned and admitted his mistake. 
Love we never so dearly, we cannot give our 
beloved more than happiness. 

He saw no one in the garden. The cottage 
door was open, and he stepped in — almost 
bashfully. At the kitchen door, which was not 
quite shut, he hesitated. Then through the 
chink he spied his mother. 

She had opened all the drawers in the 
dresser. From this and that she had taken 
homely articles, wooden spoons, black- 
handled, two-pronged forks, a rolling-pin, and 
such-like. And now she was fingering them, 
fondling them, crooning over them — the dear, 
worthless treasures she had lost and found. 

For the life of him David could not have 
faced her then. Going softly out of doors 
again, he passed round the cottage and came 
in sight of his father. 

John Forres had a hoe in his hands, but 
was doing no labour. He was standing 
motionless, his face upturned to the calm 
blue sky. There was that in his face which. 
David had seen but once before — on the day 
when his mother began to recover from the 
one serious illness of her life. 

As the son halted the father moved and 
caught sight of him. 

" I Wris jist praisin' the Lord," the old 
man said, simply, rather absently. Then he 
held out his hand. " Davie, lad ! " 






KT me explain at once 
that I was not born in, 
or near, the Gaiety 
Theatre. Strictly between 
ourselves, I may tell you 
1 was bom some years 
before I ever appeared 
at the Gaiety — it is 
no use being too pre- 
cise in these old-age - 
pension days — one 
never knows when 
that five bob a week 
may come in useful — 
and before I came to 
London I went through 
all sorts of vicissitudes. 
Not the most enjoyable of 
these was nearly to lose my 
life as a snowball at the Corn 
Exchange, Market Harborough, 
through a super pushing me on 
from the wings, so that I lost 
my balance and rolled into 
the footlights, which at once 
set fire to the snowball cos- 
tume in which I was en- 
veloped. But for a large 
(.lash of good luck and a 
plentiful supply of blan- 
kets I should not be 
alive to-day to tell 
you this stirring tale. 
But most people 
have short memories 
in these days, and I 
take it, therefore, 
that, having worked 
for twenty-one years 
at the Gaiety Theatre 
without a break— except 
when I broke my leg— I 
am p r o ba b 1 y better 
known as ll the comedian 
who is always at the 
Gaiety " than in any 
other capacity. 

I made my first ap- 
pearance at that theatre 
when I played Mephi- 
stopheles in 4< Faust 
Up- to ^Date" during 
a six weeks' season 
under the manage- 

Phot*, hf 


the late Mr, M 





"IN TOWN " ' — HIS 



Photo, to 
JSfAiirtt, L>.*rne*. tt BtU, 

Van Biene, That 
engagement seems a 
very long way off 
now, and those who 
dabble in theatrical 
history of days gone 
by may be interested 
to learn that in the 
same cast appeared 
Messrs, J. J* Dallas, 
Eric Thome, and 
George Honey , while 
Miss Grace Pedley 
played the part of 
Marguerite. It will 
thus be seen that, as 
far as the leading 
players are con- 
cerned, many changes 
have taken place 
since the " Faust Up- 
to-Date " days, In- 
deed, although at the 
present time I am 
taking a short holi- 
day from the Gaiety, 

I think I may regard 
myself as the oldest 

II standing dish " who still does his humble best 
to " feed " audiences there. 

My first appearance under the " Guv'nor's "—I 
mean Mr. George Ed warden's — management was 
as Shrimp, the Call Boy, In the second act of 
i( In Town " there was a small part of a Call Boy, 
w r hich was originally played by Miss Jennie Rogers. 
Like the man who fell into the sea when taking a 
stroll on the front, I literally u tumbled " into this 
part — and at extremely unpleasantly "short notice. 
On Christmas Eve — I have no memory for dates — 
the management sent for me and tersely asked me 
whether I would play the part of the Call Boy when 
" In Town " was produced at the Gaiety on Boxing , 
Night. The part was so small that when it was offered to 
me I had to borrow a microscope to find it in the script , 
but after thinking the matter over I replied that I would 
play it if, when I had been lucky enough to find it, I 
might be allowed to u build it up." The management 
agreed to my architectural proposition, but the " study- 
ing " of that part was anything but a walk-over, I 
practically only had Christmas Day in which to learn the 
dialogue — also the words and music— of that classical, 
moving, soul - stirring song, '* Keep Your Eve on 
Call Boy," 

However, it had to be done, so I hurried up to the 
Gaiety to find the chorus mistress waiting to leach me 
the music, with the piano planted well in the centre of the 
stage. Without a moment's delay I commenced to con- 
centrate my brain power on the words and music — a 
^not rendered any the easier by the fact that a sm 

army of thirty or forty scene - shifters 
and limelight men were working at high 
pressure. However, after some three hours 
or so of quiet study in this pandemonium 
I felt I had got a good grip on the music, and, 
tucking my part under my arm, I made my 
way to the stage- do or. On reaching the 
friendly shelter of this portal I felt a light 
touch on my shoulder, and, turning round, I 
found myself face to face with a none-too- 
deanly scene-shifter, who had evidently been 
watching me standing by the piano with my 
hands behind my back during my rehearsal. 
" You'll forgive an old 'and takin' a 

Photo*, by 




/VjW.i, ha K.^r.'ii.rm a it »nvu 


tt A « AMUSING SCENK }S «* PKti^V.'V 

***«**,«. igrtized by Vjt 

liberty , young- 
feller - me - lad/' 
he said, whis- 
pering stertor- 
ously into my 
ear, " but it's 
not meant as a 
bit of imperence, 
yet I'd like to 
givey era friendly 
tip, like — and 
that is, that 
you'll find that 
song of yourn'U 
go a darn sight 
better if you put 
a little action 
into it." 

Evidently this 
son of the theatre 
was under the 

impression that I proposed to sing 
song as I had rehearsed it — that is to say, 
without action. But his advice was, I knew, 
meant most kindly, so that I thanked him 
profusely for his original brain-wave, and was 
not surprised to learn later on that, after the 
song had made a big hit, my worthy friend 
told his pals " that it was thanks to him that 
I hadn't made an unholy frost of it. 5 ' 

" In Town " proved a great success, and 
in time I " developed " the character of 
Shrimp, the Cull Boy, so that eventually it 
became one of the best parts in the piece. 
Had I made a 

failure of it I *^ 

imagine that the 
Gaiety would 
have probably 
seen me no more 
for some little 
time. But it's no 
use waxing pessi- 
mistic over suc- 
cesses. I was lucky 
enough to "get away" 
with the part of the 
Call Boy, and thai 
first success was, I 
think, the means of 
cementing my lonj; 
with Mr, George 
Edwardes — and the 

When I had been 
at the Gaiety about 
three years — in ladtp ^J J"I"*3 j PSik circus cikl. 

during ttwivEP^oFhmiaw*™*. 



week of " The Shop Girl " — I was stricken dnwn with 
typhoid fever, and was out of work for a year and five 
months j of which time 1 was on my hark for no less 
than a year and three months — the odd two months I 
spent in trying to learn to walk again. Returned to the 
theatre, where — I recall with a pride I would not sup- 
press if I could — I was accorded an ovation so generous 
that 1 felt the tears running down my cheeks, I at 
once proceeded, as I hoped, to make up for lost time 
and lost money. But fate again was against me. 
I was just beginning to warm to my work when my 
well-known "dummy duct/' with the late Katie 
Seymour cropped up. Scarcely had the orchestra 
rattled off a few bars than I felt my shin-bone snap 
right in half ! 

" Great heavens," I thought to myself, "surely the 
works can't have gone wrong again ! " In my own 
mind I felt they had, but for a minute or so not 
even Katie Seymour noticed that anything w r as 
wrong, and so, hoping against hope, I tried to 
believe that nothing had happened. And trying 
to believe it and supporting myself as best 1 
could by holding on to Miss Seymour, J went 
on with the duet until George Grossmith, 
junior, realized my trouble, with the result 
that, before 1 really knew where I was s I 
found myself being carried off the stage. 

The pain I endured was too excruciating 
for words, for the fracture was a real beauty, 
I think, however, the mental was worse than 
the bodily pain, for if you will figure it out 
quietly to yourself and will bear in mind that 
I was dependent on my work in the theatre 
(or a livelihood, you will realize at once that 

I'h.Ao. b§ youhkam <£ lit* field. 

havingf^^jncj^sick list for seventeen 


Meandering memories. 


earning a living again, after a quarter of an 
hour or so's work was a state of things which 
even the most philosophical of philosophers 
could scarcely be expected to appreciate, 

I will not describe what happened after my 
clothes were cut off me. It wasn't a bit 
funny. The next thing I really remember 
very clearly was waking up on the following 
morning* not caring very much about my 
bodily accident j but worried to distraction 
as to bow I should get through my illness — 
"get through. ,4 I mean, from a finan- 
cial point of view. Happily, however, 

did not have to worry long, for my 
visitor was Miss Ellaline Terriss, who 

pped and sympathized with me for a 
kj so successfully that when she left 

already felt that half my troubles 

Half an hour or so after she had gone f 

though I was able to repay the loan shortly 
after I started work again, I still feel 
that I shall never really be out of Miss 
Terriss's debt, for there are times in most of 
our lives when one hundred pounds should 
not he regarded as representing merely one 
hundred pounds — for it represents nothing of 
the sort. It is the father 
of Hope which might 
otherwise have died, 
it is the executioner 
of Worry , and the 
E xp re ss Me sse nger 
of Relief of Mind 3 
none of which can 
be weighed up 
in a financial 

velope lying 
sleepily on the 
just within reach 
of my right hand. 
Wondering what 
on earth could be 
inside it, I quickly 
opened it, to find 
a cheque for one 
hundred pounds. 
That kindly thought 
on Miss Terms' s part 
I shall never forget as 
long as I livej and. 

fhot». I -j ! 






But there is an end to most things — not 
excluding trouble. After lying on a bed of 
sickness for several months, and after going on 
a three weeks' holiday to Norway, and after 
touring in the provinces for eight weeks in 
" My Girl/' I returned to the Gaiety as 
Biggs, an American bar-tender, in " The 
Circus Girl." 

At this juncture I wish to be allowed to 
ask The Strand Magazine readers a straight, 
pertinent question. Does anyone imagine, 
from glancing at the illustrations in this 
article, that your humble servant is a good- 
looking man ? If one or more persons have 
come to this conclusion and elect to persuade 
others that 1 am a handsome man, I will throw 
down my cards on the table at once and say 
that they are liable at any moment to rob me 
of one of my most valuable stock-in-trades. 
How ? Why ? Simply and solely because 
my looks have been as valuable to me as was 
to her the face ot the beauteous milk-maid 
who acknowledged that her countenance was 
her fortune. 

Frankly, I know I am not a handsome man, 
and, equally frankly, I acknowledge that I 
don't want to be a handsome man. As a 
matter of personal confession I may say that 
I have not a single misgiving about my face, 
which is one of those " homely " — I use the 
word in the American sense — straightforward, 
rugged, hewn - out - of - a - rock - and - then - 
stamped - upon - by - a - steam - roller sort 
of countenances which command the admira- 
tion of all fortunate enough to have caught 
sight of it — once. I write " once " because 
I heard a nervous lady remark, as I came out 
of the stage-door of the Gaiety one night, 
that if ever she saw a face like mine again she 
would never go to the theatre — she wouldn't 
be able to. In raucous tones she said that a 
second shock like that would be too much for 
her weak heart and delicate state of health. 

But I am not jealous of handsome men — 
not a bit of it. Beauty, forsooth ! — it should 
be a drug on the market. And I write this 
from experience, the greatest of all teachers, 
not from mere hearsay, for was I not for many 
long, weary years trying to win fame and 
fortune and all the time casting curses on my 
homely countenance before I realized what a 
lucky fellow I was to have been born with a 
visage which would never win a prize even at 
one of those popular seaside beauty contests 
which seem to me to be invariably won by the 
plainest of human beings ? 

In my early days I used to set great store 
by elaborate make-up. But before long the 
thought crossed my mind that I was on the 

wrong track altogether — and when tfxai 
heaven-sent brain-wave struck me I discovered 
that I had hit upon the secret of my own 
success, which lies in the fact that one should 
strike out an individuality and stick to it like 

I observed that, no matter what piece tfiey 
played in, Toole and Edward Terry almost 
invariably adopted the same make-up. ** If 
it's good enough for them it's good enough 
for me/' I thought. So I took the hint, and 
ever since I have adopted the same bit of red 
nose, no matter what part I may have been 
playing. The only difference Toole and Terry 
made was in the clothes they wore, and I 
literally " followed suit." People used to 
speak of me as " the red-nosed comedian," 
but I saw that fame and fortune were to be 
won by the judicious use of red-nosedness — 
and that red-nosedness has remained with me 
at the Gaiety ever since — though I always 
take it oft before I go home at night. 

There is one drawback, however, to being 
regarded by the members of one's own 
company as a plain man. And that drawback 
is that when one meets with an accident, a 
real accident — as I have said, I think I have 
had more than my fair share — as a plain man 
one does not get nearly as much sympathy — 
not a tithe as much — as a handsome man in 
similar circumstances. Thus, I remember 
when I was playing in " A Messenger Boy " I 
narrowly escaped a nasty mishap in the scene 
where, as a plucky fireman, I had to mount to 
the aid of beauty in distress. One evening 
my " mounting " resulted in a severe fall, in 
which I earned a bruise on the forehead which 
threatened to swell to the size of an egg. But 
was I sympathized with ? Not a bit of it. 
Not a single member of the company seemed 
the least bit sorry for me — just because, of 
course, I'm a plain man; and when I told 
Miss Connie Ediss * that the bruise on my 
forehead was becoming " egg-like," the only 
consolation I received was to be told not to 
make a " mounting,, out of a molehill." 

Among many popular comedians with 
whom I have been associated at the Gaiety is 
none other than dear old Arthur Roberts, the 
king of lightning-gaggers, and one of the 
greatest monarchs of mirth-provoking jokes 
that have ever faced an audience across the 
footlights. At one time and another Arthur 
and I cracked many a wheeze together, and 
in " Don Juan " we worked an unexpected 
joke which, if I may say so with due humility, 
took the house by storm. It wasn't in the 
book when we started to work it, but after 
its first reception it was left in for evermore, 




This unrehearsed effect — by the way, it is 
most curious hem successful unrehearsed 
effects frequently are; at least that's my 
experience — came about in this way. Arthur 
Roberts had been out of the cast owing to 
having been laid up with lumbago. Pro- 
nounced fit and well by his doctor, he duly 
turned up at the Gaiety, and was told that 
he had to sing a duet with me entitled " Not 
a Word." As luck would have it, at the time 
Arthur was mixed up in some legal business 
or other, and, in consequence, had not much 
time to study the words. Still, to quote Mr. 
Weedon Grossmith in " The Pantomime 
Rehearsal," he assured me that " everything 
would be all right on the night." 

As a friend, I was naturally bound to take 
his word for this, but, between ourselves, I 
was a little bit doubtful whether everything 
would be quite all right, so that I thoughtfully 
learnt his part as well as my own. On the 
whole, it was lucky that I did — but that's 
another story — for really, what Arthur lacked 
in knowledge of the words he more than made 
up for with brilliant gagging, and when we 
were accorded a particularly cheery encore — 
despite the fact that we hadn't got one ready 
— he was in no way perturbed, but merely 
said, as he stood in the wings, " Come along, 
Teddy, my lad ; keep your eye on me, and 
we'll just make it up as we stride along." 

Accordingly Arthur, who was dressed as a 
species of Stiggins, walked up to the footlights 
with the dignity of the youth who has just 
left school, and who has been bought a top-hat 
for the first time, and in funereally impressive 
tones raised his topper. The following 
dialogue then ensued : — 

Roberts : " Oh ! they say the British 
lion ! " 
Payne : " Not a word ! not a word." 
Roberts : " Oh ! they say the British 
lion ! " 
Payne : " Not a word ! not a word ! " 
Roberts : " Oh ! they say the British 
lion ; yes, they say the British lion ! Oh ! 
they say the British lion ! " 
Both : " Not a word." 
In cold blood — I mean in cold print — there 
may not sound anything particularly humor- 
ous about the above dialogue, but the fact 
remains that it went so amazingly well with 
the audience that it was kept in ever after- 
wards, never failing to prove one of the big 
hits of the evening. Perhaps I may be 
pardoned if I mention the fact that on the last 
night of " Don Juan," when the time arrived 
for speeches, and bearing in mind the many 
spontaneous gagging contests Arthur Roberts 

VoL xlvii.-33. 

and I had engaged in during the run of the 
piece, my good friend was kind enough to 
compliment me as follows: "I have galloped 
hard, and taken a few obstacles with all sorts 
of comedians in my time, but Teddy Payne 
is the only man who ever made me take up 
the whip and ride." 

By the way, one night, on leaving the 
Gaiety, Arthur was accosted by one of the 
professional cadging gentry who, after relating 
a carefully-prepared tale of misfortune, ended 
by proffering his visiting-card — presumably 
in the hope that it would be accepted as some 
sort of evidence of good faith. The most 
generous of men in deserving cases, he had, on 
this occasion, sized up his man at sight, and 
as he looked at the card he noted it was 
inscribed with a foreign name, and in a style 
frequently followed on the Continent — that is 
to say, the number of the house was placed 
both before and after the name of the road. 

A moment's scrutiny, and Arthur handed 
back the piece of pasteboard to the astonished 
mendicant with the remark, " Great Scot ! 
You don't mean to say that you've got the 
impudence to ask me to help a man who lives 
at both ends of the street ? " And ere the 
tale-pitcher could recover from this Robertian 
shaft the comedian had adroitly removed 
himself from the spot. 

Writing of stage-door cadgers — their name 
is Legion — I remember being accosted one 
night during the run of " The Circus Girl " by 
a very down-at-heel gentleman who asked me 
if I wanted to buy a really intelligent-looking 
dog. At the time I happened to be on the 
look-out for a dog, and said, " Well, I might 
think about it if the dog really is intel- 
ligent — can you explain why you lay such 
stress on your dog's enormous brain-power ? " 

The man replied with emphasis, " I can, 
indeed, sir. I bought the dog and trained 
him myself. I got him so that he'd bark if 
a person stepped inside the gate, and I thought 
I was safe from burglars. Then my wife 
wanted me to train him to carry bundles, and 
I did — you could teach that dog anything in 
about ten minutes. If I put a package in his 
mouth the dog would keep it there until 
someone took it away. Well, one night I 
woke up and heard someone in the next room. 
I got up and grabbed my gun. They were 
there ! And the dog " 

" Didn't he bark ? " I interrupted. 

" Never a bark, he was too busy." 

"Busy? What doing?" 

" Carrying a lantern for the burglars ! " 

I did not buy that dog. 

The names of ladies who have played at 



the Gaiety are, as 
is well known, writ 
large in Debrett. 
Which reminds me 
of a story of a cer- 
tain member of the 
chorus of a musical- 
comedy who had 
aroused the admira- 
tion of one of the 
most bashful young 
men — bashfulness is a 
trait seldom found in 
a stage-door Johnny — 
I've ever seen in the 
precincts of any stage- 

One Sunday evening this 
retiring young man was 
asked to supper to meet 
the parents of his in 
amorata. After sup- 
per, about nine- 
thirty, as the object 
of his unexpressed 
affections was 
playing and sing- 
ing at the piano 
in the drawing 

room, her 
father^a rather 
graflfj s tout 
old gentle- 


man j entered the room and said to the young man. 
who was standing by the piano, M Excuse me, 
sir, but do you know what the time is ? " 
The bashful youth moved nervously^ away 
from the piano. u Yes, sir," he replied; 
"I was just going,*' He went into the 
hall without any delay, and hastily put 
on his hat and coat. The girFs father 
followed him. As the caller reached for 
the door-knob the old gentleman again 
isked him if he knew what time it was, 
1( Yes, sir/' he replied, -i Good 
night," and he left the house, leaving 
his gloves and walking-stick behind 
him. After the door had closed the 
old gentleman turned to his daugh- 
ter, " What's the matter with 
that fellow?" he said. "My 
watch ran down this afternoon, 
and I wanted him to tell me the 

As fjir as I can judge by the 
present-day standard of stage- 
door hahituis 9 this type of young 
man is distantly related to the 
Still another story of a charming 
musical-comedy lady who, after a couple 
of years or so on the stage, retired on 
her marriage. The 
young man to whom she 
was engaged lived some 
distance from his bride- 
elect, On the eventful 
day he set off for the 
station in good time, 
but , being delayed by 
friends, he missed hi* 
train. Then he be- 
thought himself of 
the telegraph. 
" Don't marry till 
I arrive. — Wil- 
liam/' was the 
message he wired. 
Actors, I believe, 
are generally sup- 
posed to be lazy in- 
dividuals who shun 
exercise of any sort 
as they would shun 
the plague. Per- 
sonally f however, 
during the whole of 
the time I have been 
at the Gaiety I have 
invariably made a 
point of keeping 


FAGiDfibstiiMl from 

"fflRTOfft"OFMICHI^f elf fit bycyding 



and gardening, I would rather 
travel a hundred miles to see 
a cycle-race than a horse-race 
at any time. As a matter of 
fact I have taken part in a 
good many cycle -races in my 
time, and was in the first 
twenty -four hours' race on the 
Putney track when Frank Shet- 
land's twelve hours' record was 
wiped out. Perhaps you may 
remember that during the con- 
test the lightning flashed and 
the thunder roared and I he 
rain descended. Sundry 
of the competitors, in- 
deed, became alarmed, 
chucked up the business, 
and sought the shelter 
of an adjacent cellar. 
Trifles like thunder, light- 
ning, and rain t however, 
have never worried me 
much, and I managed to 
keep going for nine 
hours, at the end of 
which time I was hold- 
ing fourth place and going 
better than any of the 
company, when, having 
covered two hundred and 
thirty miles in close on record 
time — I had almost exceeded 
the speed - limit, in fact — I 
came a cropper and hurt my 
knee so severely that I, too, 
had to retire. 

Writing of exceeding the 
speed -limit reminds me that 
on one of my cycling jaunts 
in the country I happened to 
be present when a motorist 
was caught in a police-trap, 
and as I had seen the exces- 
sive pace at which he was 
supposed to have been travel- 
ling I was commandeered to 
give evidence, l * Was his 
motor going so very fast ? n 
asked the magistrate of the 
police - trapper who had done 
the trapping. il Yes, your 
honour/" was the reply, u it was 
going so fast that the bulldog 
on the seat behind him looked 
like a dachshund/' 

And now, gallant - hearted 
gentlemen and ladies, I bid you 
an revoir — but before long 


you v/ill, doubt- 
less, see your 
humble servant 
again treading 
the dear old 
boards of the 
Gaiety* Ah, me ! 
What a life we do 
lead, to be sure ! 
the quest of 
bread and butter 
— with occasional 

* n 

Original from 




Illustrated Ly Cyrus Cuneo. 

OUNG Lord Flam borough sat 
alone in a room of his enor- 
mous London house , frowning 
over a mass of papers. 

Flam borough — better known 
in the Indian Army as Captain 
the Hon* Robin Bulford — had just come 
home. In doing so he had *' come into his 

He was the third son of John Bulford, 
first Lord Flamborough— the " Petrol Peer/ 3 
as society called him. He — Robin — had 
really no right, beyond the right afforded by 
pure accident, to his present eminence. For 
he had disliked his father and had a deep 
abhorrence of the title and all that went 
with it. Years ago he had quarrelled with 
the head of the family. 

This quarrel was not a common case of a 
young man's debts. It was just this : the 
third son of the Petrol Peer had had the 
effrontery to protest against the methods by 
which his father had amassed the nucleus of 
his immense fortune. 

Of course, a good many people had been 
directly the better off for the fact of the 
Flamborough riches. Except one man — Jim 
Gosselin, And he was dead. So what, asked 
the world., did that matter ? He was not 
well known ; he had never been the centre 
of a little cosmos like his friend Bulford, He 
had simply gone under. For years he had 
not been heard of by his immediate friends. 
And then there had been a paltry suicide in a 
little country town. People recognized Gos- 
selin 3 s name and said, " Dear, dear ! If we 
had only known, something might have been 
done. And he leaves a wife and a daughter. 
Dear, dear ! Well, they surely must have 
relations who will help them. Something 
will be done. But Flamborough ought to do 
it. He let in Gosselin years ago. What — 
you never heard the story? Well, it was a 
great pity, a great shame. But remember, 
Gosselin was a fool. He ought to have cleared 
out of the concern like Bulford, Bulford 
knew, of course, how the thing was going. 
He persuaded Gesso fin to go into it— and 

^ffH&TY%MfeHI^ Yet Gosselin 


ought to have kept his eyes skinned, you 
know. An Army man, of course. They're 
always soft in business matters. Easy game. 
Still — Flamborough ! " 

Robin Bulford never got those two words 
out of his ears : " Still — Flamborough ! " It 
embodied his keenest memory, his hottest 
sense of shame — that conversation overheard 
at a club just when the newspapers were 
commenting on the Gosselin suicide. 

So Robin Bulford tackled his father, pleaded 
with him, accused him — and lost the great 
cause. But he took his defeat with a high 
hand, met parental abuses and threats with a 
voluntary renunciation of his rights as a son 
and an emphatic repudiation of the family — 
his mother excepted — exchanged from a 
Guards regiment into the Indian Army, and 
faced a life of comparative poverty. 

When, after another two years, the news 
of his sudden inheritance reached him, the 
excitement at the power flung into his lap 
both stimulated and prostrated him. 

Not till a fortnight ago had he been able to 
do anything practical towards his end. He 
had advertised for the Gosselins in several 
daily papers, and also in the provincial 
organ published in the small country town 
where mother and daughter resided at the 
time of their family tragedy. 

So far there had been no reply. His heart 
was leaden. For he was beset by the belief 
that these women no longer existed, that 
they, too, had gone under — perished ; or 
possibly there was worse than death for them 
— incurable illness, wreckage, or shame. 

This heavy, stupid day was nearly at an end. 
Only one episode remained to it, and that 
loomed now as an unspeakable bore, worse 
even thqn the daily lawyer's business and 
domestic affairs. An engagement faced him. 
Fortunately it happened to be an affair 
out of which he could easily slide — an At 
Home — a wedding At Home, too, or rather a 
" pre-nuptial prance," as the note described 
it. It was a merry, friendly, affectionate, 
slangy note from the bride herself — Alie 
Beaumont. He had 1. .own her in pinafores. 
She had always been a good playmate, a keen, 
zesty creature, one of the few people whom he 
liked wholeheartedly, without suspicion of 
her motives or of her loyalty. He had sent 
Alie a very rich gift — a magnificent" pendant. 


He sat in his motor now, waiting in the 
immense double queue which stretched round 
two sides of the huge, august square and far 
down a side -street. His limousine had 
reached the end of the first half of the square 
and stood at the head of this part of the 
queue. Another side-street pierced the square 
just at this point, and a policeman saw to it 
that the entrance to that was not blocked to 
other casual traffic. Flamborough felt sorry 
for the poor* devils in taxi-cabs, who were 
counting up the twopences during this tiresome 
interval. He wished he could invite some of 
them into this horribly luxurious limousine, 
left exactly as his father and mother had used 
it, fitted with every imaginable luxury, from 
silver clock, cigarette-case, card-case, match- 
box, mirror, telegram-case, to a silver- 
clamped address-book — nay, even to a ladies' 
powder-box and flask of eau-de-Cologne. He 
had. not made that last discovery — about the 
powder-box — before, and it amused him. 
Just as he was putting this object back into 
its leather pocket there was a crash. A taxi- 
cab from the side-street had tried to oust his 
car from its place just as the procession on the 
other side of the crossing had moved forward. 
Seeing this, his chauffeur had made a dash 
for the tail of the upper half of the queue, and 
the taxi-cab had collided with the limousine, 
and it was the former which had suffered. 

The taxi-door was broken off, one lamp and 
one window were shattered, and, through the 
din of policemen's orders and the oaths of 
the two drivers, a piteous voice, a woman's, 
begged for help. Flamborough was out of his 
car in a moment, regardless of his pumps and 
the mud. The little electric detachable lamp 
from the interior of his car, which he had 
snatched up as he jumped out, showed him 
the exact state of affairs. There hung the 
broken cab-door, a mass of splintered wood, 
and in the gap, bent with fright and shock, 
stood a lady, on whose grey' velvet cloak 
gleamed splinters of the broken glass. 

" The floor of the taxi is broken ! " she 
cried. " The glass is all over me — in my 
hair, too. I must get out. Oh ! the mud ! " 

" Wait one moment." 

Flamborough caught up a car-rug and 
flung it on to ihe roadway. 

' " N WfIV!^lTrO^HIGAN 

2 7 8 


" Thanks, thanks — but that's no use — I 
shall get so splashed — I can't stand there on 
a rug island. I must get on to the house." 

" You are going to the Beaumonts' ? " 

" Yes." 

" Then please make use of my car." 

She stepped down fearfully, with dress 
jealously gathered about her. His electric 
light shone on a very beautiful pair of feet and 
ankles and caught the gleam of threads of jet 
on a misty swirl of black skirts. The hand 
that lay in his was shaking with the sudden 
discomfiture. She all but fell as she attempted 
to enter the limousine, and he practically 
lifted her in. He got in after her. Just as 
the limousine jerked on the taxi-driver ran 
alongside, abusing the lady at the top of his 

" Oh ! " she cried, shamefacedly. " Yes, 
yes — I forgot the fare. It is under two 
shillings, so two shillings will be right." She 
dived into her draperies for the money. The 
man outside threw her words back in her 
teeth. Did she think he could get a new 
door and lamp and pay his glazier's bill out 
of her paltry two shillings ? 

Flamborough leaned out and gave him 
short shrift. 

" Here's three shillings. And be hanged 
to you for trying to cut out my chauffeur and 
hurt a lady. All your own doing — this smash. 
I've given the police my card and I'll dare you 
to bring damages against me." He shut up 
the window with a snap, and turned to the 

" I am so very sorry," he said, " but you 
won't be troubled any farther. Neither you 
nor I were to blame, and if the matter comes 
into court I will see that you are not worried. 
I hope you are all right now ? " 

" Very nearly," she said, faintly. " I 
have got sonje glass into my glove — a little 
cut, somehow. I fear I am raining glass on 
all your rugs and cushions." 

" That's nothing. I've got some eau-de- 
Cologne in here. Have some. We're close 
to the house now." He pulled out the 
Cologne bottle and proffered it. She took it, 
asked him to hold the stopper for her, and 
slipped something besides the stopper very 
shyly into his hand. 

" I hope that is right," she murmured, 
awkwardly. " The fare really was two 
shillings — in fact, less. I only came part of 
the way by cab, you know." 

"Oh! but I can't " He really detested 

this florin in his palm. 

" You must take it, please — just as if I 
were a man, and you had met me — anywhere." 

" Oh ! As you wish." He slipped ttie 
silly coin into a pocket, where it jingled with. 
others — mostly gold. 

" Thanks — this is delicious eau-de-Cologne 
— the best I ever met," she said, with a light: 

Another jerk, and they were at the portal 
of Number Eighty. She sprang out lightly 
— with a bow and brief thanks for his inter- 
vention and assistance — and the splendid 
interior received her. 

After divesting himself of his coat and 
opera hat he hung about the vestibule for a. 
few minutes, expecting to see her come out. 
Five minutes passed, and she was still 
invisible. Yet it did not seem quite polite to 
lie in wait for her. The matter was settled 
by a son of the house, who emerged from a. 
room where light refection was served, greeted 
him uproariously, and swept him upstairs. 
Flamborough was immediately tossed into a 
vortex of family introductions and gradually 
pushed forward into the dense pack of the 
first of three drawing-rooms amid a roar of 

The second drawing-room, like the first, 
had a door opening on to the stairs. He 
entered the room, propelled, willy-nilly, by a 
plump and hard-fighting dowager and her 
dibutantc y just as a song came to an end. It 
was now that he caught sight at last of the 
lady of the shattered taxi. The full blaze of 
a Venetian chandelier fell upon her as she 
mounted the stairs. Uncloaked now and in 
full glory of white shoulders rising from a 
perfectly - fitting, simple black dress, she 
stood out in that over-bedizened crowd, not 
only by sheer simplicity, but by beauty. It 
was a most distinguished face, a most queenly 
head — unadorned, except for the piled-up 
wealth of hair arranged with such taste, but 
without any show of artifice. 

She was at the goal now — the stairhead. 
He strained his ear to catch her name. It 
escaped him. Now she was being received 
by Mrs. Beaumont — kindly, but not with 
special enthusiasm. He saw the girl — surely 
she was not a married woman ? — turn aside, 
scan eagerly the faces of people about her, and 
then she was swept forward into drawing- 
room number one, as he had been swept. He 
waited. Sooner or later she must gravitate 
to this point. He amused himself by chatting, 
sotto voce y to a ma., he knew slightly — a 
painter — and kept his eye on the door between 
that first room and the second. 

" What is going on in number three ? " he 
asked. ^ 

^(JH^RaW^afeMChlS.^cquaintance, "is 


















,rMFloo *oPTKK tan. is *****£ Ti™« T iv»iSii]r 

im mv Hair, 



given up to the blessed wedding loot. A 
perfectly disgusting display, I call it — worse 
than a Royal Academy show. Everything is 
jumbled up cheek by jowl. It beats even a 
charity bazaar. The Beaumonts ought to 
have hired a warehouse for half the stuff.' * 

Fate intended him to visit the " bazaar." 
The girl in black had entered the concert- 
room. Just once their eyes met. She 
recognized him with a little, faint smile. He 
bowed very slightly. She moved on. He let 
her pass out of sight before he followed and 
strolled casually into room nuinber three. 
Besides himself and the girl in black, only 
a few people were there. From time to time 
he stole a look at her. She was examin- 
ing leather goods — endless purse bags, 
blotters, despatch and jewel cases. One of 
his stolen glances proved a little too lengthy. 
She caught him. He was annoyed with him- 
self, and turned abruptly to a book display. 
She was watching him now. She passed him 
and bent over some jewels. He had lost his 
chance of speaking. 

To his surprise she gave it to him by a little 
ejaculation : — 

" Oh, look ! How wonderful ! " 

She frankly meant that invitation to con- 
verse for him. No one else was at hand. 
The other women were trailing out of the door, 
chatting about supper. A solitary man was 
in a far corner, absorbed, apparently, in a 
new kind of barometer and weather-chart 
combined. Flamborough approached with a 
second bow and regarded the object to which 
she pointed. For a moment, so different did 
it look among the surrounding gewgaws and 
so rapid had been his transaction at the jewel- 
shop, he did not recognize the pendant — 
especially as the card which accompanied it 
had fallen aside and lay face downwards. 
But now he remembered the stones — pink 
tourmalines and pearls and diamonds. They 
were probably the best in the room. 

" You admire it ? " he asked Incognita. 

" It is the most beautiful, the most valuable, 
thing in the whole room." 

"I think the design is quite good/' he 
replied, discreetly. 

She turned from him abruptly and her 
glance wandered over the necklaces, brooches, 
clasps, and rings in that marvellous little 
colony of flashing stones and velvet-lined cases. 

The solitary m£tn relinquished the problem 
of the weather-chart and drew a little nearer. 

The girl suddenly looked straight in Flam- 
borough's eyes with challenge in her own. A 
delicate scorn played about her mouth. Her 
voice was low, intensely bitter. 

" Isn't it a disgrace to England — all this ? " 

" How ? " asked Flamborough, puzzled for a 

" All this excess of 'good things,' as they 
are called — dozens and dozens of duplicate 
toys for one man and one woman. Heaps of 
silver, heaps of ornaments. They can't use 
half of them really. And all the while people 
are starving, committing suicide, dying of 
disease because there is no bread for them 
and no hope of bread." 

" There is always hope," said Flamborough, 
quickly, " if only " 

" Some people come to an end of hope." 
She left him inconsequently and crossed the 
room to the books. 

After a minute he followed. He was sorry 
for her. He sympathized fully. He would 
very much like to go deeply into this question 
with her. It was so very near his heart. He 
thought miserably of the Gosselins. * 

He tried to reopen the subject now as he 
pointed out the titles of the books and tried 
to interest her in their bindings. It was one 
of the handsomest of these which gave him 
his opening. He took it up (with an absurd, 
furtive sense that this was a sale-room where 
customers were requested not to handle the 
goods roughly, and that the solitary man in 
the corner was a shopwalker) and opened it 
at random. It was a book of selections from 
Ruskin. By a coincidence he opened it at 
this passage and read it aloud : — 

" * It is the duty of magistrates and other 
persons in authority, but especially of bishops, 
to know thoroughly the numbers, means of 
subsistence, and modes of life of the poorest 
persons in the community, and to be sure that 
they at least are virtuous and comfortable ; 
for if poor persons be not virtuous, after all the 
wholesome discipline of poverty, what must 
be the state of the rich, under their perilous 
trials and temptations ? ' 

" Doesn't that rather tickle you ? " he 
asked. "And doesn't it make you just a 
little sorry for the rich, with their all-too- 
much of toys ? " 

" ' Tickle ' me ? " Her eyes blazed at him 
as if his words had been a deliberate insult. 
" I wonder if — if you had ever st — I mean, if 
you saw people starving because they were 
as virtuous as the bishops would have them, 
you would think that anything could ever 
* tickle ' them ? Really, you ought to be a 
bishop, I think, so that you could go deeply 
into these things. As for Ruskin, he never 
starved. Men who don't fight for their 
bread can afford to be sentimental about the 
vji[^^ptj^e,-ipo^f j-^ijipjqd to be. Now I 



sometimes look upon them as the most obsti- 
nate form of weakness." 

Here was a desperate sentiment, a frank 
opinion indeed for a woman so young, so 
beautiful, who, from her bearing and manner, 
was so assuredly removed from any first-hand 
knowledge of the seamy side of life ! He was 
not very quick yet in discernment. He had 
mixed very little with any but women in his 
own class. 

He felt uncomfortable, somehow guilty, and 
rather afraid. Still, curiosity was his pre- 
vailing emotion. He wanted to press her on 
the question raised, ardently wished to see a 
little farther into the mind behind that pale, 
sensitive, beautiful mask of hers. She had 
experience which would throw light upon his 
own problem. On the other hand, she might 
be a mere economic fanatic — a mixture of 
socialistic philanthropist, suffragist, revolu- 
tionary. He had not make up his mind 
on any sociological subjects. At present he 
merely wanted to see righted certain wrongs 
which came under his eye — righted instantly 
without reference to any large scheme for 
social reconstruction. .The thought of the 
Gosselin women lanced his brain poignantly, 
scattered his wits at the moment. 

" Oh ! well," he said, lamely. " Of course 
—I didn't mean to treat such a very serious 
thing frivolously. I'm really on your side, 
you know. That's why I am so awfully 
pleased with the way Ruskin puts it." 

" Oh ! yes " she tossed, curtly, over her 

shoulder as she moved away. 

He regarded her beautiful back with per- 
plexity and contrition. He wanted to take 
her down to supper and soothe her. Yet if 
he asked her now she might rebuff him. He 
would give her time. 

So he strolled over to the solitary man in 
spectacles, who had gone back to the fas- 
cinating .weather-chart, and examined it 
with him. It really was a most delightful 
toy and intensely absorbing, but Flam- 
borough managed to keep one ear cocked for 
the rustle of draperies of black tulle and jet, 
while his new acquaintance, who seemed very 
interested in temperatures and cyclonic dis- 
turbances; talked about his recent experiences 
on an Atlantic voyage. 

"Yes — I went over on legal business — 
expert evidence." 

Even as the words were uttered, a light 
flashed across Flamborough. How stupid of 
him ! Of course, the solitary man was the 
usual inevitable detective who is necessary on 
such occasions to protect the goods of the more 

or less unvirtuous rich from the claws of 
v ol. xlvii 34. 

the virtuous poor — as the Ruskinites would 
phrase it. At seme other time it would be 
amusing to know what this fellow thought on 
this big question. For the present the girl 
was the stronger attraction. Flamborough 
determined to appease her, draw her out — 
possibly ask her advice in his own trouble, 
veiling his story under the guise of that of a 

He walked resolutely across the room to 
reopen intercourse with his strange lady. 
She had returned to the jewels. Her back 
was towards him. She was examining some- 
thing, as before, very carefully. He had to 
make the tour of the centre table, covered 
with fancy articles and silver, before he could 
get at her. That brought him at right angles 
to her just as her hand went out slowly, 
apparently to touch one of the cards on the 
jewel-cases. The spectacled man in the 
corner swung round abruptly and watched 
them both. At this point two things happened. 
The arm of the detective, in his quick turn; 
caught a photograph-frame, which jostled 
another, and another. Five or six of these 
articles rattled down upon the floor. He 
stooped to them. Simultaneously the slender, 
black-gloved hand of Flamborough's Incog- 
nita covered something, and retired. He 
stared. He had very good sight. From the 
spot where he stood he could see a white 
velvet case— empty. 

He walked up to the girl, his heart beating 
furiously. She moved away slightly, collided 
with him. With her left hand she pressed a 
lace handkerchief to her lips. Her face was 
ashen, her eyes pools of terror. Her right 
hand, tightly closed, clutched the draperies 
of her dress. He felt rather than saw the 
solitary man rise from his stooping position, a 
pile of fallen photograph-frames between his 

Flamborough spoke without hesitation, 
almost in a whisper — a very stern whisper. 

" Give it to me," he said, looking down at 
the hand which was almost hidden in the 
black tulle draperies. " Don't be afraid. Do 
as I tell you — at once." 

For the second time that night her palm 
brushed his and left something behind. 
Would to Heaven it were only another silly 
florin ! 

" Now," he murmured, " leave the room. 
Do it naturally — not in a fluster. The man 
over there is watching us. Go straight down. 
Speak to no one. Get your cloak. Wait for 
me in the outer hall. I will take you away." 












watch her as she rustled out slowly, her eyes 
gazing ahead of her, her figure swaying like 
that of a woman under the influence of a drug. 
He had other work to do, with the gimlet eyes 
of that other man on them both. Swiftly 
Flamborough turned to the jewel-table. His 
hand covered the white velvet case stealthily, 
just as hers had done. When he withdrew it 
the case was re-inhabited by a cluster of pink 
tourmalines, diamonds, and pearls. He did 
not stop to arrange the pendant gracefully in 
its soft nest. The sweat broke obt on his 
forehead as he made for the door and fought 
his way down through the pack of humanity 
on the stairs. 

She had acted with lightning (juickness. 
As he dived into the men's cloak-room for his 
coat and hat he saw her waiting, in her 
wrap, in the outer hall, her face almost 
entirely veiled by a scarf of black lace. He 
was still struggling into his coat as he joined 
her. He made a sign to her and gave rapid 
orders to a footman. 

She had the nerve to walk up to him and 
murmur, " It will take a long time to find 
your car. Perhaps we can walk to it. Then, 
if yoii will drive me to a Tube station, I can 
get home by train." 

"Car?" he replied, sharply. "I'm not 
going to risk shouting for my car and — and 
all the delay. I have ordered a taxi. I will 
see you home myself at once." 

The taxi arrived. He hurried her into it. 
She gave an address. It was somewhere in 
Pimlico. They travelled for a whole minute 
in appalling silence. Then he burst out : — 

" What— why, in the name of Heaven, did 
you do it ? " 

" I think — I think I was mad. My brain 
was going round. I was hungry " 

" Hungry ? » 

Her only answer was an uncontrollable 
outburst of laughter — laughter which ended 
in wild sobbing. He could not bear it. He 
put a hand on her arm and spoke very gently. 

" Listen to me — I want to know more. I 
want to help. I should like to have a little 
talk with you now — at once. I hardly like 
to billet myself on your house, on your people, 
so late at night, but " 

" I have no house. My mother is ill. She 
cannot live very long. We cannot ask you 
in. We only have one room out there in the 

" Very well, that settles it. We will go to 
a restaurant — a good one and a decent one. 
We will have supper. We can talk. Then I 
shall see you home." 

44 1 would much rather you set me down here 

in the street," she cried. " I never want to 
see you again. I never want you to know 

anything " She checked her grief and 

rounded on him passionately with a fresh 
effort. " Why didn't you leave me alone ? " 
she blazed. " What does it matter to you — 
all this ? " 

" But — the man was a detective. Don't 
you see the horror of it all ? Even now there 
may be danger. He saw us. He would think 
us in league." 

" Then why," she retorted, " did you lay 
yourself open to suspicion ? I could have 
gone through with it all — gone to prison even. 
That would mean one mouth less to feed at 
home. And nothing can hurt my mother 
any \ more. Her mind wanders. She wouJd 
not realize much. And the world would know 
at last — at last to what it has driven us." 

She fell into those wild sobs once more. 
He put his head out of the window to give 
the address of a restaurant, and returned to 
his ministrations. 

" Listen to me. Try to calm yourself. 
' You are in my hands, and I can keep my 
mouth shut. Don't try to think or analyze. 
I'll do,*ll that." 

" Why — why ? " she moaned. 

"Because I want to help. Because I 
cannot bear to see you like this. And 
again " — he paused — " because I myself am 
in great trouble over someone — over several 
people who may be as unhappy as you are, 
and " 

The taxi stopped before the restaurant in 
a side-street off Piccadilly. Again a portal 
flooded with light received those beautiful, 
slender feet and the tall, slim figure in the grey 
cloak. Once again for a moment she was 
lost to sight in a garde-robe. This time she 
emerged much sooner. She had retained the 
black lace scarf. It shrouded her lovely 
shoulders modestly, veiled them from the 
impertinent gaze of attendants and supper 
folk alike. He piloted her to a quiet recess 
and a table for two. He scanned a wine list, 
ordered some good Moselle, and stretched out 
a hand for her glass. 

" Not for me," she said, hastily, " I should 
be intoxicated inside ten seconds." She 
leaned back in her chair, looking very white, 
very diaphanous. 

" Take two sips now and a mouthful or two 
of bread," he commanded, " and by the time 
you are half-way through supper you'll be 
twice the woman you are." 

After that he let her be. He did the 
conversation- talking of light and little things. 

A W'feft?*Mfi^ to ° noisy strinB 



band in the vestibule filled* up the awkward 
places, the conversational gaps, delightfully. 
He let her tell her story — left the broaching 
of it on her shoulders — felt himself something 
of a coward for that. Yefc, after all, she was 
his guest. It was for her to reveal the life into 
which he had impulsively pitchforked himself. 
She did it suddenly, without any prepara- 
tion; leaned forward, and made a condition 

" I will answer any questions. But I can't 
tell you everything unless you promise to 
believe me." 

" I am as anxious to believe as I am to 
hear everything," he said, with a smile of 
perfect good faith. 

" Will you believe that such a thing as 
this — the thing that I did to-night — has 
never happened before ? " 
" I know that." 
" Why ? " 

"Oh, because, in the first place, you would 
have been more rusie. Excuse the word. 
I only mean that you would have gone about 
it differently. You would have known who 
he was — that fellow with the spectacles in the 
corner. Above all — your face ! You a-^n't 
that sort. That's what — hurts." 
" Thank you ! " 

She looked down, played with crumbs of 
bread, lifted her eyes again, and plunged 

" When you took up that Ruskin book 
and read out that sentence I could have 
screamed. I could have torn the book into 
shreds and flung it at you. I only just 
managed to control myself. But something 
seemed to go snap in my head. And then a 
voice whispered and whispered, ' Go back to 
the jewels ; go back — and look at them. 
There is something there which you must 
look at.' The stones, especially the pink 
ones, were full of horrible things. I wanted 
to tear them out of their settings. Then I 
saw something else — a card just by that 
case — the one with the — the thing I gave 
back to you. I saw a name on it." 

" Yes ? " he said, with shame in his face. 
Every vein in his head seemed on the point of 

" It's a name that ought never to have 
existed. The sight of it — in copperplate, 
with a gorgeous address in Mayfair below it — 
was the worst thing of all. It's the name of 
a man who has no right to his money or his 
title. If you only knew ! " 

I shall know. You are going to tell me, 
you remember," he said, swiftly. He did 
n 0t realise how very stern his eyes had grown, 

and, though their imperiousness was not 
caused by anything she had said or done, 
they scared her. 

" Don't— don't look at me like that," she 
gasped. " If you knew what that man 
represented you would forgive me everything 
I have said and done to-night." 

" Forgive ? " he said, miserably. " I have 
nothing to forgive. Go on. What has this 
man done to you ? " 

" He is just living riotously on the money 
his father made out of my father. His father 
was just a murderer. It can't be called 
anything else. They — the world — called it 
suicide — my father's case. But it was his 
friend who really shot him — who ruined him 
and first beggared and then starved my mother 
and myself. He pushed us down, down. He 
pushed me to this — to what I did to-night." 

" He is not alive still ? " asked Robin, 
grey about the lips. 

" No ; but a family like that never dies. 
Bay trees always flourish. There is his son, 
I tell you. And now he goes on — pushing us 
down, down, it seems, by his very existence." 

" Stop ! " said Robin. " One moment. I 
have something to tell you. That horrible 
pendant was my gift to Alie Beaumont." 

For a moment he thought she was going to 
collapse, faint dead away. She sank back 
with a little moan and covered her face with 
her hand. It was only for a second. She 
managed to rise, steadying herself by the 
little table between them. 

" I will get my cloak," she whispered. 
" Let me go." She made a few steps forward. 
In two strides he was with her, drew her hand 
into his arm. 

" Now, come — we'll talk out the rest of 
this wTetched business on the way to your 
place," he said, gently. He beckoned to the 
waiter as he passed. " Bring me my bill in 
the vestibule." 

He took the girl to the cloakroom door, 
paid the reckoning, waited till she reappeared, 
and hailed a taxi. 

" There's nothing more to say," she faltered, 
after the cab had been running for a minute 
or two. 

" No, it's my turn to talk. I've been wait- 
ing for this — for years. Why did you not 
answer my advertisements, Miss Gosselin ? " 

" Advertisements, Lord Flamborough ? " 

" In the Post — the Telegraph, the evening 

" You forget. We can't afford to take in 

" Is therB^|^|^,^^N^#u ? " 

" We have only been in London a few days. 



We had to leave our last place — a boarding- 
house on the Continent — suddenly. Can't 
you guess why ? " 

" But the Beaumonts ? They might have 
told you." 

" For five years we have been living under 
another name. And I only met the Beaumonts 
two years ago. My mother insisted upon the 
change of name. There was the suicide, you 
see — she could not bear to be dogged by that 
always. And then there were my father's 
creditors. Wherever we went the old name 
brought trouble, distrust. So we just cut the 
cables — we vanished socially. And I had to 
get work somehow — governessing, companion- 
ships, work in shops, anything, everything. 
Things went better when my mother was 
fairly strong. I could leave her and. get 
tolerable employment. Then she was struck 
down — partly paralyzed, and I had to join 
forces with her. We kept a little boarding- 
house in Switzerland — till last week. But 
we had a bad season. Everything waragainst 
us. The bailiffs descended on us. We had 
to leave everything — all the furniture I had 
scraped together, all the comforts. I came 
up — here, to London, to get her into a hospital 
and then find work. 

" I hoped the Beaumonts would help — I 
did some secretarial work in Sussex for them 
last summer. That is why I went there 
to-night. Their invitation to this party 
came a fortnight ago — I couldn't accept then. 
I didn't even reply. This morning I decided 
to go — and make some excuse — explain that 
we had suddenly come to London. My 
mother wished me to go. I hated the idea. 
It meant breaking into my last sovereign. 
It was tempting, though. After what one 
has been through for years, especially during 
the last fortnight, you cannot imagine how 
one just aches to forget the horrible poverty 
and the horrible fear for an hour or two and 
go to a thing like that party, where one 
meets people who are not hungry and not 
afraid day and night. And then, you see — 
there was the chance that, if I ' showed up,' 
the Beaumonts would help me after the 
wedding. But now I see it was the most 
idiotic, the most indecent thing I could have 
done — in the circumstances." 

" It was the only thing that you could do. 
It was an inspiration. If I could only tell 
you the relief, the " 

The taxi pulled up. He had to relinquish 
her to that narrow row of houses, with their 
dingy little front-gardens and dripping 
apologies for laurels. But he kept her 


waiting after she had found the latchkey, and 
again found the keyhole by the help of the 
matches he struck for her. 

She put out her hand. 

" Good night. I feel as if I had been 
walking through pools of mud to-night and 
dragging you into them. I feel as if there 
were no place so dark and so deeply hidden 
that all the world will hot find me out and 
point and laugh — now. I shouldn't care, I 
shouldn't care any more, if only my little 
mother ! " 

A tear fell on his hand as it tried to meet 
hers in the darkness. He longed to take her 
in his arms. But, since he was a gentleman 
and the night was dark and the hour late, he 
acted differently. He proceeded to show a 
fresh light. 

He struck two matches together this 
time, and stooped as if he had lost some- 

" What is it ? " she asked, in a low voice, 
fearful to attract the attention of gossiping 
neighbours or belated passers-by. 

" There isn't a trace of mud on your feet," 
he announced, gaily. " They're the most 
beautiful feet I have ever seen. You must 
have been dreaming about that part Qf it. 
As for the rest " — he raised the flickering 
flame to the level of her face — " wherever you 
go into hiding I shall find you out long before 
the world has an inkling. I have been 
hunting you in my thoughts for years — you 
and your mother. And now, if you please, 
I beg leave to stand between you and the 

" Good night," she said again, with a 
happy sob. 

" Good night. This is the last night which 
you will spend in this place, so make the best 
of it," he answered, with a laugh. 

Her tears were raining once more on his 
hand, for she had lifted it to her lips. 

" There ! " she cried, as she let it fall again ; 
" I'm bad and I'm bold. But I said horrible 
things about you all. And this is all I can do 
to show you that I know how much I hurt 

" It will hurt still more to-morrow, I 
expect," he said, cheerfully. 

She slipped into the house and shut the 

He walked back over the damp flagstones 
of the garden-patch to the still panting taxi. 
He was glad it was not raining any more. 
For that would have completely obliterated 
the warm salt-drops on his right hand — the 
precious baptism into his new life. 



Qes DBArmstrong 


HOSE unversed in the pleasant 
art of philately may, perhaps, 
find it hard to conceive of any 
romantic association in so 
prosaic an object of our every- 
day life as the ubiquitous 
postage -stamp* Yet 
within his album-pages the philatelist 
can point to countless specimens 
with histories as eventful as the most 
absorbing creations of the novelist's 
pen. Rare stamps are akin to famous 
gems or celebrated objels d'ati, in 
that they are frequently the 
subject of curious stories and 
legends of remarkable interest 
and f asrinati on f handed down 
irom one collector to another, 
until each has secured its 
permanent niche in the 
archives of philately. And 
the same is true of the less 
valuable stamps that are 
found in mure modest collec- 
tions, as of the tares aves 
reposing in the sumptuous 
volumes of the millionaire 
collector, Every stamp, indeed 7 has its story, 
telling in mutely eloquent language of the 
victories of war, the blessings of peace, the 
march of civilization, the rise and fall of 
nations ; providing, in short, a lasting and 
comprehensive record of the most notable 
events of our times, 

A selection of some of the most interesting 
stones and legends dealing with the romantic 

side of what is to-day the most universally 
popular of all collecting pursuits may serve 
to demonstrate the truth of these assertions, 
and to explain, in purl, to the uninitiated 
some of the fascination that the collection 
and study of postage-stamps holds for its 

The Penny Black— the First 

The adhesive postage -stamp 
had its orijjin in England 
seventy - four years ago as a 
direct outcome of the postal 
reforms introduced by Sir Row- 
land Hill, whose master - mind 
created not only the inestim- 
able boon of penny post age } 
but the means by which it was 
into effect — the adhesive postage- 
At the lime of the passing of the 
Penny Postage Act in 1839 all 

NO* J- — THE 




postal charges were paid in cash (usually on 
delivery), involving an enormous amount of 
book-keeping on the part of the Post Office, 
which would have been increased a hundred- 
fold when the reduced rates of postage came 
into force but for the suggestion of the great 
postal reformer, for *' a bit of paper, just 
large enough to bear the stamp, and coated at 
the back with a glutinous wash/' being sub- 
sequently embodied in the famous one penny 
black postage label (No. 1) and its consort, 
the twopence blue, which made their dibut 
in May/UttfbPW^ of 

all adhesive postage -stamps. 



The First Foreign 
Postage- Stamps. 

For three short 
years Great 
Britain enjoyed 
a monopoly of 
this novel and 
handy method of 
collecting post- 
ages, until, in 
July, 1843, the 
enlightened Em- 
pire of Brazil 
followed suit with 
a series of un- 
prepossessing ad- 
hesive labels of 
native manufacture, adorned with 
large numerals of value in place of a design 
(No* 2). In 1847 the United States entered 
the field with two beautifully-engraved por- 
traits of Franklin and Washington (No. 3), 

> L* NO. 2 — 

Tin-: KAiu.ii - r 


whilst the head of Ceres, the Goddess of 
Agriculture , found place on the first stamps 
of the French Republic (No. 4), engraved by 
the elder Barre, which made their dibui on 
January 1st, 1849, On the 
same date appeared the first 
Belgian labels, bearing a 
portrait of Leopold I., and 
in the same year Bavaria 
joined the ranks of the stamp- 
issuing countries, whilst on 
June ist, 1850, Austria-Hun- 
gary put forth her initial 
postage-stamp issue, embla- 
zoned with the Hapsburg 
Arms. At the close of the 
first decade the convenience 
of the postage-stamp had been adopted by 
some twenty Governments, and within the 
ensuing sixty years its use has been extended 
to every civilized country on the face of 
the globe, a recent estimate putting the 
number of distinct types of postage-stamps 

NO. 4.— 




Duskus FeUmzii 
qo* YkiJfltt, 






issued by the countries of the world at ovei 
twenty thousand specimens, not including 
the multitudinous varieties dear to the heart 
of the philatelist. 

The Barest Stamp In the World- 
Value £2,000. 

Pride of place amongst the many valuable 
and unique specimens belongs to a singularly 
unpretent i ous 
and sorry-look- 
ing stamp (No. 
5), issued in the 
Colony f 

British Guiana 
in 1856, for pro- 
visional use 
pending the 
arrival of afresh 
mentof the 
postage- (J m ) 
stamps J < 
from Eng- ' 
land. It is 
of the de- 
tion one 
cent, the 

design being crudely set up from ordinary 
printer's type at the office of the Official 
Gazette , with the central device of a sailing 
ship taken from the heading to the shipping 
announcements in the paper. 

The single known copy of this rarity was 
discovered by a young collector in the Colony 
amongst some old family papers stored away 
in an attic. Knowing nothing of its scarcity 
and not being favourably impressed by its 
appearance, he sold it to another collector 
for a trifling sum, the purchaser also being 
ignorant of his great bargain. Ultimately it 
found its way to Europe, and now reposes in 
the collection of M. Philippe de la Renotiere, 
of Paris, the distinguished owner of the world's 
greatest stamp collection , who purchased it 
many years ago for an amount that has never 
been disclosed, hut is believed to have been 
at that period a record one. Its intrinsic 
value to-day, in the very unlikely contingency 
of its ever coming into the market, is certainly 
in excess of two thousand pounds. 

A report on this famous stamp by a cele- 
brated expert stales that " the copy is a poor 
one, dark magenta in colour, and somewhat 
rubbed. It is initialled ' E. D. \Y7 and dated 
April ist, the year not being distinct enough 
to be nEteftii'n aK&OTrtheless, it is the rarest 




NO* 6- — THE 
11 PCST 

omen " 
ma u urn us. 





'0q o 

The Host Famous 
Stamp — the **Post 
Office" Mauritius- 
Value £1,450. 

Probably the best 
blown and most dis- 
cussed of all philatelic 
rarities are the two first 
postage - stamps of the 
Island of M a u r i t i u s, 
which were crudely en- 
graved on a small copper- 
plate by a local watch- 
maker of Port Louis, 
and issued on September zrst, 
1847* They bear an unflattering 
presentment of the late Queen 
Victoria, the words " Post Office " 
appearing along the left-hand side 
of the frame in error for the in- 
scription €i Post Paid/' and from 
this circumstance they derive their 
familiar title (No. 6), A total of 
only five hundred copies of each 
of these stamps were tediously 
printed off, one at a time, from 
the plate, and the 
majority of these 
were used on invita- 
tions to a ball sent 
out by Lady Gomm ; 
uife of the Governor of the Colony. 

01 these only twenty-six copies are known 
to be in existence to-day. It was not until 
nearly twenty years after their issue that the 
first two copies of these rarities were brought 
to light by a young stamp-collector of Bor- 
deaux. The most perfect used copy of the 
twopenny Post Office Mauritius was sold by 
auction in 1004 for no less a sum than fourteen 
hundred and fifty pounds, and is now in 
King George's collection. It originally re- 
posed in an almost forgotten "' collection 
formed by a suburban collector when at 
school, who was unaware of its value until 
enlightened by a philatelic friend. 

The Tragfe Legend of 

the "Twelve - pence 

Canada. 1 * 

One of the most sensa- 
tional philatelic romances 
is woven round 
that popular 
rarity the 
stamp of 
Na %— a stamp with a * anada (No. 

TRAGIC STORY. ?)j a COpy Of 

Vol. xJviL— 35. 

which played a prominent part in a grim 
tragedy in Montreal over sixty years ago. 
Shortly after the appearance of this stamp 
— in November, 185 i, to be precise- — an 
elderly Canadian who divelt in a small 
house overlooking the St. Lawrence 
River had occasion to send away by 
post some valuable securities that had 
been entrusted to his care, Whilst 
preparing the package for posting he 
was interrupted by the entry of his 
adopted son ? a worthless scamp, who 
commenced a long story of financial 
difficulties ? and implored the old man's 
assistance. On the latter declaring his 
inability to help him, the younger man 
suggested that the amount required 
might be easily raised upon the papers 
in the package he was about to send 
away. This proposal his foster-father 
refused to entertain, and high words 
ensued when the old man replaced the 
package, franked with a copy of the fate- 
ful twelve-pence stamp 3 in a deed-box, 
which stood open on the table, and turned 
the key. In desperation the son at- 
tempted to wrench the box 
from the elder's grasp, and in 
the struggle that followed a 
lamp was overturned and the 
flimsy wooden habitation was 
speedily in flames* Drawing a pistol ( his 
assailant fired at the old man, inflicting 
a mortal wound, and then made good his 
escape^ whilst his foster-father, with a supreme 
effort, dragged himself to the window and 
flung the precious box into the deep waters 
of the river. His charred corpse was dis- 
covered next *lny amongst the ruins of the 
house, but of the deed-box and its contents 
no trace could be found. 

Forty-one years later a powerful dredger 
was at work clearing a channel of the St. 
Lawrence, when one of the crew observed a 
bulky object clinging to one of the dredges. 
He secured it, and on examination it proved 
to be the missing box with its contents intact 
and in an excellent state of preservation, the 
package containing the lost securities bearing 
on its cover a splendid copy of the scarce 
twelve- pence stamp, which was ultimately 
sold for seventy pounds. 

The peculiar name of this stamp is due to 
the fact that Canadian currency required 
fifteenpence to equal the shilling sterling, and 
in various parts of North America the local 
" shilling " ranged in value from sixpence- 
half pennv to, The postal rates were 
therefor^ ^fffrffiffiffiSgypr. 



The Stamp or Death. 

A stamp round whit h 
centres one of the foul- 
lest political crimes of 
modern history is the 
so-called " death-mask 
stamps of Servia, issued 
in 1904 to commemo- 
rate the accession of 
King Peter L 
The das- 
tardly assassi- 
nation of 
King Alexan- 
der and his 
Queen Draga 
by military officers on June 
nth, 1903, wiped out the 
Obrenovitch dynasty from the 
throne of Servia, and paved 
the way for the succession of 
the present King. A series of 
new postage- stamps bearing 
the likeness of the murdered 
monarch, which was in readi- 
ness for issue at the time of 

no. S. — THIS 

WAS 5 U p K ft- 

HO. 9-— srrvia's DEATH-MASK STAMP, 

the amp rfVfa/, was at first overprinted with 
the device of the Servian arms, effectively 
obliterating the features of the luckless victim 
of Slavonic treachery (No. 8). 

Meanwhile M. Eugene Mouchon, most 
famous of French stamp engravers, was com- 
missioned to prepare a stamp from a design 
by a Servian artist, showing on a single plaque 
the twin profiles of Kara Georg, the founder 
of the dynasty which bears his name, and 
Ki n g Pe t er , hi s desc end ant. The 5 1 am ps were 
issued at the time of King Peter's Coronation 
in 1904, and hardly had they got into circula- 
tion than it was discovered that the *' death* 
mask ,J of the late King Alexander had been 
skilfully and subtly introduced into the 
design, and on the stamp being inverted could 
be plainly traced in the reversed features of 
the two heads {No, 9). This discovery at once 
caused an outcry, the stratagem being ascribed 
to ex-Queen Nathalie, mother of the murdered 

no. to. — A 


King, and her supporters, but all connivance 
in the plot was indignantly repudiated by 
the veteran engraver, and the mystery of 
this extraordinary happening has never been 
satisfactorily cleared up. 

The Romantic Story of 
the Stamps of Sedan?. 

The romantic story of 
the eventful 
career of 
King Marie 
L of Sedang 
is interest- 
i n g 1 y re- 
called by a 
series uf 
pscudo post- 
age - stamps 

purporting to have been issued in the land of 
the Sedangs (No. 10). When these Sedarg 
stamps first appeared in Europe philatelists 
were at a loss to know what to make of them, 
the kingdom of Sedang not being found in any 
popular gazetteer, but for a time they were 
accepted as a legitimate issue. 

The history of *' Marie, Roi des Sedangs/' 
is recounted at length in a volume on the 
41 Far East " by Sir Henry Norman, who 
describes it as t( one of the most remarkable 
romances of modern Eastern history.'* Marie 
David de Mayrena, the picturesque adventurer 
who styled himself " S.M. le Roi des Sedangs; 1 
first made his appearance at Hong-Kong in 
the spring of 1889, where he was vouched for 
by the French Consul. He had had an adven- 
turous career in the Far East, and in the course 
of his wanderings had reached the territory of 
a tribe known as the Sedangs, who inhabited 
the hinterland of Annarn, by whom he con- 
trived to get himself elected King, At first 
he was recognized by the French Colonial 
authorities, concluded several successful 
t reat i es wi t h nei ghbou ri n g t ri bes , an d a ppears 3 ■ 
in fact, to have made an admirable ruler. 
During his stay in Hong-Kong he was always 
magnificently attired j his note-paper adorned 
with a coat-of-arms surmounted by a crown, 
and he instituted an elaborate ** Order of 
Marie L/ 1 which he bestowed on all and sundry 
of his acquaintances , including the Governor 
of Hong-Kong himself. Lastly he had a 
series of postage-stamps printed in Paris 
ostensibly for use in the Sedang country, but 
in reality for sale to unwary philatelists. 
Unfortunately at this juncture the French 
Colonial authorities changed their policy and 
decided QttgfcBdJeko the region over which 
M4kSHVlEPS*Wr C^4 v JC^H§*lNcing Mayrena as j 



an impostor. Marie sought the protection of 
Great Britain and was refused, so he decided 
to try Germany, and actually dispatched an 
incautiously - worded telegram to Berlin 
offering his allegiance. He had, however, 
overlooked the fact that his message must 
pass through the French telegraph-office at 
Saigon, where it was reported to the Colonial 
Government, and a warrant issued for his 
arrest. Believing himself to be condemned to 
death for high treason, Mayrena fled from 
Hong-Kong secretly, leaving a budget of 
unpaid bills in his wake. 

A few years later he turned up in Paris, 
where he lived in excellent style, and finally 
his somewhat chequered career was brought 
to an abrupt termination in the Malay 
Peninsula by the bite of a cobra. 

King George as 
a Stamp De- 

The interest 
taken by His 
Majesty the King 
in the science 
and hobby of 
philately is 
noted, but the 
eminently prac- 
tical nature of his 
philatelic studies 
is by no means so 
widely known. 
Few people, 
even amongst stamp - collectors, are pro- 
bably aware that His Majesty (then Prince 
of Wales) was responsible for the design 
of the 1903 postage - stamps of Canada 
(No. n), universally acknowledged to be the 
most artistic stamps of the last reign. About 
the time of the late King's Coronation the 
Postmaster-General of Canada, then on a 
visit to England, took the opportunity of con- 
sulting with His Royal Highness on the 
subject of the proposed new issue of postage- 
stamps for the Dominion. The Prince 
entered whole-heartedly into the matter, and 
not only placed his expert knowledge and 
experience at the disposal of the Canadian 
authorities, but undertook to superintend the 
preparation of the " master-die " in England. 
The stamp itself was designed by the then 
Prince of Wales in conjunction with the late 
Mr. Tilleard, of the Royal Philatelic Society, 
and showed a three-quarter-face portrait of 
King Edward VII. in robes of State, taken 
frjpm a Coronation photograph, enclosed in a 
neat oval frame, with two small Tudor crowns 


ir. the upper spandrels, and figures of value 
in tablets wreathed with maple leaves in the 
lower corners. 

The Edwardian stamps of Canada can, 
therefore, lay claim to the distinction of 
being the only stamps designed by a King. 

A Stamp Designed by a Baker's Boy. 

The postage - stamps of the erstwhile 
Republic of Corrientes, now forming part of 
the Argentine Confederation, are amongst the 
crudest and most ill-favoured specimens known 
to philatelists. Respecting their creation and 
issue a curious story is related, furnishing one 
of the few humorous episodes in the history of 
the world's postage-stamps. It appears that 
the need for postage-stamps in Corrientes was 
first experienced on account of the want of 
small change, through which the working of 
the Post Office on a cash basis was rendered 
extremely difficult. At that period the 
Province of Corrientes had its own paper 
money, of which, however, there was no 
denomination lower than one dollar, whilst 
of silver coins there was a complete dearth. 
One of the officials came to the conclusion 
that the deficiency might be met by the issue 
of postage-stamps, and, the project being 
approved, himself undertook to make the 
necessary arrangements. The task proved of 
greater difficulty than he had anticipated, 
since no engraver could be found to cut the 
die or prepare the plates for the proposed 
stamps. Whilst discussing the situation with 
the head of the State Printing Office on his 
veranda one morning, the baker's boy 
arrived with the daily supply of bread, and, 
overhearing the conversation, volunteered to 
undertake the work, stating that before 
emigrating to South America he had been 
apprenticed to an engraver in Italy — his 
native country. At his wit's ends to get the 
stamps prepared, the official accepted the 
offer and gave the boy a specimen of the 
contemporary postage - stamp of France, 
bearing the head of Ceres, with instruc- 
tions to make as close a copy of it as 

The result, which was presented some days 
later, was so deplorable that the official 
hesitated to show it to his superior for fear of 
ridicule, but, no other course being open, 
finally did so, when, to his astonishment, the 
caricature was accepted, despite its crudity, 
and subsequently served for all postage- 
stamps issued in Corrientes from 1855 down 
to September 1st, 1880, when the separate 
stamps were superseded by those of the 
Argentj W |Repubiic 0FM | CH | GAN 






A Romance of 


For another post- 
age - stamp romance 
we will take the tale 
of the vanity of Post- 
master-General Con- 
nelly of New Bruns- 
wick, and its dis- 
astrous consequences. 
In Decern ber, 1859, 
the Hon, 
Chas. Con- 
nelly then 
General of 
New Brunswick, was autho- 
rized to procure a new set 
of postage-stamps in view of 
the impending intro- 
duction of decimal cur- 
rency into the North 
American Colonies, 

Mr, Connell person- 
ally visited New York 
and placed a contract 
for the stamps. Act- 
ing apparently upon 
the assumption that 
he had a free hand in determining the details 
of the issue, Connell caused his own unpre- 
possessing countenance to be substituted for 
that of the Sovereign on the five-cent value 
of the new series (No. 12), thai denomination 
being in most general demand. On the stamps 
reaching Frederic ton 
f o r distribution it 
leaked out that Con- 
nelly own portrait 
appeared on one of 
the values, and it was 
therefore decided that 
the stamps must be 
approved by the 
Onerjil Council In- 
fore issue. Notifica- 
tion of this was sent to the Post- 
master- General , who was absent 
from the capital, which, however, 
he ignored. The Council ruled that 
the five -cent stamps must not be 
issued, and it was decided that the 
Postmaster -General should be in- 
structed to obtain a new five-cent 
stamp. This Connell refused to 

worth six hundred pounds a year, Conndl 
shook the dust of New Brunswick from his 
feet, passing the remainder of his life in 

Stamps of the Scott Expedition. 

Of the ill-fated Scott South Polar Expedi- 
' on stamp-collectors possess tragic mementoes 
in the current halfpenny and penny postage- 
stamps of New Zealand, overprinted victoria 
land {No, 13), for use on the correspondence of 
members of the expedition. When the Terra 
Nova left New Zealand for the Antarctic 
regions on November 29th, 1910, she carried 
one hundred pounds' worth of penny New 
Zealand postage-stamps overprinted as above, 
which were supplied to members of the ex- 
pedition, and used on letters dispatched to 
New Zealand and the outer world by the 
Terra Nova on her various voyages, A post- 
office was duly established at Cape Evans 
by Captain Scatty who had been officially 
appointed postmaster of the British Antarc- 
tic in succession to Sir Ernest Shackleton, 
and the stamps were in every way a legitimate 
issue, available for franking letters to all parts 
of the world 3 and duly recognized by the Posul 
Union. The halfpenny stamp was added early 
in 1 91 3 to make up the twopence-halfpenny 
rate on letters to foreign countries, the date 
of issue being January iSth — the day on 
which the news of the disaster reached the 

The remain- 
ing stock of 

" fa V^j, 

NO. 13,— THK 




these scarce and in- 
teresting stamps has 
n -i <ntly been put on 
sale in London in aid of the funds of 
the British Antarctic Expedition, and 
they are t 1 believe, still to be obtained 
from the Secretary of the British 
Antarctic Stamp Department, 89, 
Farringdon Street, London jE.C. ? price 
twenty - five shillings for the half- 
penny and five shillings for the penny value. 

do T and 
in view of what he was pleased to regard 
as an unwarrantable interference in his 
department by the Council he delivered up his 
portfolio. Having resigned his appointment, 

Our thank j art d*£ to Mttirs, Bright 6* 5t* t Strand^ J&r iht ban of many ej fkc ttam^$ tfiuttratmf tkit *rticl?\ 

Doubtless the/ will be treasured bv manv 
Captain Scott and his comrades* 



Author oi 


Illustrated by James DurJen. 

Philip Treat is the central figure of Mr. 
Bentley's recent novel, "Trent'* Last 
Cue/' which it already one of the 
elastics of detective fiction, Trent is 
an artist, still young ; he sometimes 
turns to journalism at the request of his 
friend, a famous editor, who has dis- 
covered in hint a peculiar talent for 
newspaper detective work. He gets on 
well with everybody, and Inspector 
Murch, of Scotland Yard, is an old 
friend. Trent's lively, generous, 
quaintly- humorous personality has had 
much to do with the immense popu- 
larity of the novel in which he was 
introduced to the world. 

MU1KHEAD. Introduced 
by Chief Inspector W. 
Murch," Trent was reading 
from a card brought to him 
as he sat at breakfast. 
He finished his coffee 
deliberately and stood up. 
" Show him in here." 
" Certainly, sir/' 

Inspector Muirhead was a lean, light-haired, 
upstanding man with a scanty yellow mous- 
tache, dressed in an ill-fitting dark suit, with 
a low collar much too large for his neck. 
The only noticeable things about him were 
an air of athletic hardness and a pair of blue 
eyes like swords* 

*' I am very glad/ 5 said Trent, " to meet 
any friend of Inspector Murch's. Sit down 
and have a cigar. Not a smoker ? So much 
the worse for the criminal class, Now let 
me hear what it is you want of me/' 

Copyright, 1914, 


The hard-featured officer squared his 
shoulders and put his hands on his knees, 

" Inspector Murch thought you might be 
willing to help us unofficially, Mr. Trent, in 
a little difficulty we are in. It concerns the 
escape of James Rudmore from Dartmoor 
yesterday afternoon/' 

u I hadn't heard of it/' 

" It's in the papers to-day— the bare fact. 
But the details are unusual, Rudmore 
did what others have done — made a bolt 
from one of the gangs doing outdoor labour, 
taking ad% ? antage of a mist coming on sud- 
denly* But instead of wandering on the 
moor till he was taken again, as they, mostly 
do , he got on to a road some miles from the 
prison, where he had the luck to meet a motor- 
car, going slow in the mist. He jumped out 
in front of the car, and when the chauffeur 
stopped it Rudmore sprang at him and gave 
him a knock on the head with a stone that 
stunned him, The car belongs to an American 
gentleman and his wife, by name Van Som- 
meren, who tfere touring about the country/' 

" Gratifying for them/' remarked Trent, 
* ( They will feel the English are not making 
strangers of them— that we are taking them 
to our bosom, as it were/' 

" Mr, Van Sommeren drew a revolver/* 
pursued the detective, stolidly, " and shot 
twice before Rudmore closed with him. He 
managed to get hold of the weapon after 
a struggle, and so had them at his mercy. 
He w r as hurt slightly in the arm by one of the 
shots, Mr. Van Sommeren thinks, Rudmore 
made him give up his motor-coat and cap and 
all he had in his pockets, also the lady's purse. 
Then he put on the coat and cap over his 
convict dress and drove off alone, going east- 
ward. It was hours before the others got to 
Two Bridges and told their story/' 

w He managed it well/' Trent observed, 
lighting a pipe. " Decision and promptitude. 
He ought to have been a soldier/' 

" He was/' returned Mr. Muirhead, " He 
had been, at least. But the point is, where 
is he now ? We now know that he drove the 
car as far as Exeter, where he abandoned it 
outside the ramvEiy ststictfi, taking with him 
two h.rgv, suit-casef ,W^-||«3m pressing-bag* 

by B, C, B*ntl*y, 






There can be no doubt that he went on by 
train to London, arriving last night. He 
has particular business here, as well as friends 
who would help him. Do you remember the 
Danbury pendant affair, Mr. Trent ? It's 
nearly two years ago now." 

" I don't. Probably I was not in England 
at the time." 

** Then I may as well tell you the story of 
it and the Rudmores. You must know it if 
you're to assist us. Old John Rudmore was 
for many years a doctor in very good practice 
at Calcutta — had been an Army doctor at 
first. He was a widower, a man of good 
family, highly educated, very clever, and 
popular. His only son was James Rudmore, 
who was a lieutenant in a Bengal cavalry 
regiment, very much the same sort of man 
as his father. There was a daughter, too — 
a young girl. Six years ago, when James was 
twenty-three, something happened — some- 
thing to do with old Rudmore,' it is believed. 
It was kept dark quite successfully, but the 
word went out against the Rudmores. The 
old man threw up his practice and the son 
sent in his papers. All three of them came 
home and settled in London. The Rudmores 
had influential connections, and Jim got a soft 
job under the Board of Trade. His sister 
went to live with some relatives of her 
mother's. The father made his headquarters 
in bachelor chambers in Jermyn Street. He 
travelled a good deal, and was interested 
in mining properties. He seemed to have 
amassed a great deal of money, and it was 
believed he made his son a considerable 

" Was there supposed to be anything wrong 
about the money ? " 

" That we don't know : but what happened 
afterwards makes it seem likely. Well, James 
Rudmore went the pace considerably. He 
got into a gambling, dissipated set, and 
wasn't particular about what friends he made : 
a reckless, desperate chap, with a dangerous 
temper when roused, and he was well on his 
way to being a regular wrong 'un when the 
affair of the pendant happened ; but he was 
very clever and amusing, and had a light- 
hearted way with him, a gentleman all over 
to look at, and hadn't lost caste, as they 

Trent nodded appreciatively. 
41 You describe him to the life. I should 
like to have known him." 

" One day there was a big garden-party at 
Danbury House, and he was there helping 
with some sort of entertainment. Lady Dan- 
bury was wearing the pendant, which was 

a famous family jewel, containing three 
remarkable diamonds and some smaller 
stones. It was late in the afternoon before 
she found that the chain it was attached to 
had broken and the pendant was gone. A search 
was begun all over the grounds, but it hadn't 
gone far when one of the maids, hearing of 
the loss, came forward with a statement. 
It seemed she had been philandering with 
one of the men-servants, in a part of the 
grounds where she'd no business to be ; the 
man's eye was caught by something on the 
grass, and the girl, going nearer to it, recog- 
nized the pendant. Just as she was hurrying 
forward to pick it up, they heard steps on 
the path, and they both stepped behind 
a clump of shrubbery. They saw James 
Rudmore come round the corner of the path. 
He was alone, and seemed to be looking for 
something on the ground. He caught sight 
of the pendant, and stood gazing at it a 
moment. Then he picked it up and, holding 
it in his hand, went on towards the place 
where the company were. It never occurred 
to them that a man of young Rudmore's 
appearance would steal it." 

" It was a silly thing to do," said Trent. 

" He was in a tight place," explained the 
detective. " It came out afterwards that he 
was thousands in debt, and had just dropped 
a good sum on the Stock Exchange." 

" He had one resource," suggested Trent. 
" I have heard it described as tapping the 

" The ancestor," said Mr. Muirhead, with 
a hard smile, " was away on his travels, 
looking into some East African mining pro- 
position, and apparently couldn't be got at. 
Besides, as you'll see, tapping him might not 
have been much good, and James no doubt 
knew that, for their relations were always 
very close and confidential. But, as I was 
saying, the two witnesses told their story 
about the finding of the pendant. An hour 
afterwards I was out after James with a 
warrant in my pocket. About nine o'clock 
I arrested him as he walked into the hotel 
where he lived. He denied the charge with 
a show of astonishment and indignation, but 
he made no resistance. The pendant was not 
on him then, and it was never found. I took 
him away in a taxicab. In Panton Street 
he gave me a blow on the jaw that knocked 
me out, jumped from the cab, and darted 
round the corner into Whitcomb Street. 
There he ran into the arms of a constable, 
who held him ; he fought savagely, and was 
only secured by Lr^ help of two men. He 

didn't mmm\ ^op wkhigan 



" Until yesterday/' Trent observed. 
" Where had he been between leaving Dan- 
bury House and returning to his hotel ? " 

" Apparently at a club in the Adelphi, 
where he played billiards for an hour and then 
dined. His story was that he'd walked there 
straight from Danbury House, and gone 
straight from there to his hotel. It couldn't 
be shown that he'd been anywhere else, but 
nobody knew exactly when he had left 
Danbury House. His line at the trial was 
that he knew absolutely nothing of the 
pendant, and that it was a plot to ruin him. 
The case against him was unanswerable, and 
the assaults on the police, of course, made 
the matter much worse. The judge was one 
of the old-fashioned sort, and James was 
sent to penal servitude." 

" Then you think he has his booty hidden 
somewhere, waiting for him to take it when 
he comes out ? " 

" Sure of it," the detective repliedg 
" Doesn't it stand to reason ? He was ruined 
anyway, and the assaults which his temper 
had led him into made a heavy sentence 
certain. He might as well have something 
to show for it when it was all over." 

" Just so. Well, then, inspector, where 
do I come in ? " 

Mr. Muirhead drew out a pocket-book. 

" Three weeks before his escape James 
Rudmore, who had been a model prisoner 
from the first, was allowed the privilege of 
writing a letter, in accordance with the 
regulations. He wrote to his father. Now 
it so happened that old Rudmore had then 
been himself in jail six months or more. 
I had arrested him, too. The charge was 
fraudulent bankruptcy, and it was as clever 
a piece of crooked work as ever came into 
court, I should think. I took him at his 
rooms, and he went like a lamb ; pleaded 
guilty, and took his dose without any fuss." 

" A philosopher," said Trent. "So he 
never got the letter from James ? " 

" Certainly not. James Rudmore was 
informed, in accordance with the regulations, 
that his letter could not be forwarded, the 
reason being withheld. He then asked to 
have it back, and that was a mistake, for 
the Governor of Dartmoor had already taken 
it into his head that there was something 
more than met the eye in the letter, and that 
made him certain of it. He believed it con- 
tained a secret message telling old Rudmore 
where the pendant was. Why he thought so 
I don't know. The letter was forwarded to 
Scotland Yard, and has been gone over care- 
fully by experts. They can make nothing of it.' 1 

" That is probably just because they ar< 
experts," Trent commented. " Where is th€ 
letter ? " 

The inspector, without reply, drew a folded 
paper from his pocket-book and handed it to 
Trent. He read the following, written in a 
firm and legible handwriting : — 

My Dear Dad, — I am writing to you, the first 
time I am allowed, to say how sorry I am for all the 
misery my disgrace must have caused you. When I 
was made a scapegoat, it was the thought of how you 
would feel the dishonour to our name that hurt me 

I wish I could have seen you just once before I 
was put away here. But you, at least, will never have 
doubted my innocence, I know. It would be the end 
for me, indeed, if when I were free again I should find 
even your door closed against me. 

I am strong and well, in better health than 1 have 
been for years. Most of the time I have been set to 
what is really navvy's work in the open air, reclaiming 
waste land. At first it was fearfully hard work, and I 
used to wish I had a hinge in my back, and as many 
arms as the idol, whose name I forget, on your mantel- 
shelf. But I soon got hardened. I have not lived an 
out-of-door life regularly for some years, and it has 
made me a new man. I feel trained to a hair. I did 
have one bad bout of fever, though, before 1 got fit. 
I fancy the climate here is rather hard on one if one has 
malaria in one's system and isn't up to the mark ; the 
country looks and smells rather like the Gelderland 
country round Apeldijk, where, you remember, I was 
laid up three years ago. But this was a much worse 
attack. I was light-headed for days, and felt like 
dying. Isn't it somebody in Shakespeare who talks 
about ** the wretch whose fever-weakened joints, 
buckle under life " ? I felt exactly like that. 

I would like to tell you all about the life we lead 
here, my opinion of the system, but all I write has 
to pass under the officials' eyes, and *' sie wUrden das 
nicht so hingehen lassen," as old Schraube used to say, 

I send this to the old rooms in Jermyn Street, 
trusting it will reach you. 

Good-bye. Your loving son, Jim. 

" This," said Trent, " is what judges in 
lawsuits call a very proper letter, meaning, 
usually, a letter with a faint flavour of hum- 
bugging artificiality about it. I don't like 
the note of its pathos, and I think there's 
some hanky-panky about it somewhere. It 
contains one passage which must be an 
absolute lie, I should say." 

" I don't know which you mean," the 
inspector replied, " but all the statements 
about himself in prison are true enough. He 
did have a bad illness " 

" Yes, naturally all those are true. He 
knew the letter would be read by the autho- 
rities, of course. I didn't mean anything of 
that sort. Look here, I should like to spend 
some time with this in a reference library. 
Will you meet me outside the British Museum 
one hour from now ? " 

" Right, Mr. Trent." The detective rose 
quickly. u Youil find me waiting. There 
ma.y be no time, to lose," 



But it was the inspector who found Trent 
awaiting him fifty minutes later, with a taxi- 
cab in attendance. 

" Jump in," said Trent. " The man knows 
where to go. It didn't take very long after 
all. I had evyi time to dash up into Holborn 
and buy this." 
He produced a stout scBew-driver. 
" What on earth for ? " inquired Mr. Muir- 
head, blankly, as the cah rushed westward, 
u Where are we going ? " 

" Inquisitive ! " Trent murmured, shaking 
his finger at him gravely. His eyes were 
shining with suppressed elation and expect- 
ancy*. " What is the screw-driver for ? Well, 
you surely will admit that it is prudent to be 
armed when going after a dangerous man. 
Then, as to where we are going — we are 
going to Jermyn Street." 

" Jermyn Street ! " Mr. Muirhead was 
staring at his companion as at some strange 
animal. " You think the stuff is there ? " 

44 I think the letter says it is — or was — 
hidden in old Rudmore's rooms." 

" But I told you, Mr. Trent, old Rudmore 
was thousands of miles away when the theft 
took place. His rooms were locked up." 

" Yes ; but isn't it likely James had a key 
to them ? You told me they were on terms 
of great mutual confidence." 
The inspector nodded gloomily. 
" Yes, it's quite likely. Then I suppose 
your idea is, he just walked round to Jermyn 
Street with the pendant, let himself in, went 
upstairs to his father's rooms, tucked the 
thing away, and then strolled on to the club. 
Certainly it's possible. Only nobody hap- 
pened to think of it." 

" No. Here we are in Jermyn Street. 
What number, inspector ? Two hundred 
and thirty— right ! " 

Trent leaned out of the window and in- 
structed the driver. The cab drew up before 
a shoemaker's shop of such supreme distinc- 
tion that only three unostentatious pairs were 
placed, as if they had been left there by 
accident, in the window. To the left of the 
shop was a closed private door for the use of 
those living in the chambers above. 

The inspector's ring was answered by an 
extremely corpulent, mulberry-faced man, 
with snowy side-whiskers and smooth white 
hair. His precision of dress and manner, 
with a certain carriage of the body, proclaimed 
the retired butler. 

" Well, Hudson, have you forgotten me ? " 
asked the detective, pleasantly, stepping into 
the well-kept but gloomy little hall. 
The stout man hesitated, then said : — 

VoL xML-36. 

" Bless my soul ! It's the officer who eame 
to take Mr. Rudmore." His face lost some- 
thing of its over-ripe appearance, and he 
added, as he closed the door, " I do hope it's 
not another business of that sort. My house 
will be getting the name of " 

41 Now, don't you worry yourself," the man 
of authority advised him. " I'm not after 
anybody in your house. I only want to 
know if the rooms that old Rudmore had are 
occupied at present." 

" They are, inspector. They were taken 
shortly after that unfortunate affair by Captain 
Ainger, who has them still — a military gentle- 
man, invalided home from India, I believe — 
a very pleasant, quiet gentleman." 

" Is he at home now ? " 

" Captain Ainger never goes out until 

" Then we want to see him. Don't you 
trouble to come up, Hudson ; stairs don't 
agree with you, I can see that. It's the second 
floor, I remember." 

" Second floor, and the door on the left. 
And I do hope, gentlemen " 

Hudson withdrew, murmuring vague appre- 
hension, and ponderously descended to the 
basement floor as Mr. Muirhead, followed by 
Trent, went up the narrow stairs. 

" I thought it better," said the inspector, 
pausing on a stair, " to go up unannounced. 
He can't say he won't see us if we just walk 
in and make ourselves pleasant." 

As the two men reached the first landing 
they heard the sound of a door closed gently . 
on the one above, and of light-stepping feet. 
A tall girl in neat and obviously expensive 
tailor-made clothes appeared at the head of 
the short stairway, and, apparently not seeing 
them, stood for a moment adjusting her hat 
and veil. Mr. Muirhead uttered a growling 
cough from below, at the noise of which the 
young lady started slightly and hurried down 
the stairs. In the half light on the landing 
they received, as she passed them, an im- 
pression of shining dark hair and barely 
perceptible perfume. Trent looked after her 
meditatively as she went swiftly along the 
ground-floor passage and let herself out. 

" Smart woman," observed the inspector, 
appreciatively, as the front door slammed. 

" A fine example of healthy modern girl- 
hood," Trent agreed. " Did you see the stride 
and swing as she went to the door ? From 
the cut of her clothes I should say she was 

There was a note in his voice which made 
the other look at him sharply. 

" And/' pursued Trent ; returning his gaze 



with an innocent eye, 
* f I suppose you noticed 
her feet and ankles as 
she stood up there, 
and as she came down- 
stairs? " 

" I did not/' re- 
turned Mr, Muirhead, 
gruffly. " What was 
there to notice ? " 

"Only the size/' said 
Trent. " The size— and 
the fact that she was 
wearing a man's shoes." 

For an instant the 
inspector glared at him 
wild-eyed, then turned 
and plunged without a 
word down the stair- 
way. He reached the 
door and tore at the 

"It's locked— double 
locked from outside 1 
Here, Hudson ! JJ he 
bellowed, and swore 
aloud and savagely as 
the fat man was heard 
shuffling across the 
passage in the basement 
below, and labouring 
heavily up the stairs, 
" Give me your latch- 
key/' he commanded, 
as Hudson, with a 
staring housemaid in 
his wake, appeared, 
trembling and gasping. 

For a few moments, 
filled with vivid lan- 
guage by the enraged 
officer, the man fumbled 
at a trouser * pocket. 
At last he produced his 
key* Mr. Muirhead 
seized it and en- 
deavoured to thrust it 
into the keyhole. After 

half-a-dozen vain attempts, he resigned the 
key to Hudson, who grasped the situation 
at the first try. 

" I'm afraid whoever double-locked it has 
left the key in on the other side," he panted. 
" This'll never go in till the other's taken out," 

Mi. Muirhead suddenly recovered his calm 
and stuck his hands in his pockets, 

£f He's done us," he announced. " He 
could rea^ch Piccadilly in fifteen seconds from 
here without hurrying. It's a clean get-away. 


Probably he's bawling off in a laxi by now, 
Hudson, why the devil didn't you say there 
was a lady with the Caplain ? I'd never 
have let him pass me if I'd known he was 
coming from those rooms." 

" I never knew there was anyone with him, 
indeed, inspector/ 1 quavered the old man, 
his mind wrestling feebly with the confusion 

^iHfPtoTYW (WCfflGAfl **» this s irl Iet 

her in , 

£i How was I to know there was anything 



wrong ? " cried the domes tic, bursting into 
tears. " She spoke like a perfect lady, and 
sent me up with her card and alL I never 
thought till this minute " 

" All right, all rights my girl/' said the 
inspector, brusquely* ** You'll get into no 
trouble if you're straight. Hudson, I want 
your telephone* In the back room here ? 
Right ! And you'd better hail somebody 
next door and get your door opened," 

The detective disappeared into the room ; 


and Hudson shuffled 
down the passage to the 
back of the building, still 
in a dazed condition. 

"What 1 don't See/' 
he mumbled, " is where 
she, or he, or whoever it 
was, got the key from," 

And as he said it, 
Trent , who had been 
leaning against the wall 
with a face of great con- 
tentment, suddenly 
turned and fled lightly 
up the stairs, 

Captain Ainger's door 
opened easily. Captain 
Ainger himself, a small, 
crop - headed man, lay 
upon a sofa near the 
window of his tastefully* 
furnished sitting - room. 
As Trent burst in, a look 
of relief came into the 
Captain's bewildered 
eyes. The rest of his face 
below them was covered 
by an improvised gag 
made out of a tobacco- 
pouch and a tightly- 
knotted silk scarf. His 
ankles were tied together 
and his arms lashed to 
his sides with box-cord. 

He looked wretchedly 

Five minutes later, in 
answer to a call from 
Trent, Mr, Muirhead 
closed his conversation 
with Scotland Yard and 
came upstairs, He found 
Captain Ainger sitting in 
an armchair, restoring 
his physical tone with a 
deep glass of whisky and 
s oda , To Trent's account 
of how he had found that ill-used officer the 
detective answered only with a grim nod. 
Then, " I suppose it was your latch-key, 
sir ? " he said to the victim. 

u Yes/' replied the little Captain, " she 
took my latch-key — he did, I mean* Tell you 
just how it was. She sent up her card — his, 
I should say— well, it was a woman's card, 
anyhow. I put it up here." 

He rose and took a card from the mantel- 




Mr. Muirhead glanced at it wilh curiosity. 

" Of course ! " he exclaimed. 

" Mrs. Van Sommeren's card, is it ? " asked 
Trent from his chair by the window. 

" It is." 

" And Mrs. Van Sommeren's clothes and 
hat, and Mrs. Van Sommeren's little bag, and 
Mrs. Van Sommeren's own particular per- 
fume — they all went by us just now/' Trent 
remarked, " in company with, I expect, 
Mr. Van Sommeren's shoes and Mr. James 
Rudmore's wig. Probably he was a little 
excited at seeing you, inspector, awaiting him 
at the bottom of the stairs. It needed some 
nerve for him to stand there fixing his veil 
without a quiver, and to trip downstairs right 
into your yearning embrace, as one may 

Annoyance, self-reproach, menacing resolve, 
and appreciation of the comic side of the 
episode — all these things were in the inspec- 
tor's eloquent answering grunt. 

" If only he had remembered to walk along 
the lower passage like a lady, instead of like 
a champion light-weight,' ' Trent resumed, 
" I don't believe the meaning of the shoes 
would have burst upon me as it did. I dare 
say hb hold on himself began to go when 
he saw the street-door and safety six steps 
in front of him. Yet that latch-key business 
was pretty coolly done. Jim is certainly a 
gifted amateur. But you were telling us " 
— he turned to the obviously mystified Cap- 
tain — " how she made her appearance." 

" The message with the card," resumed 
Captain Ainger, who still preserved his pained 
expression, " was that she would be obliged 
if I would answer an inquiry on a family 
matter. It made me feel curious, so I said 
I would see her. She had on a very thick 
veil — he had, I mean." 

"Why not stick to 'she,' Captain?" 
Trent suggested. " We should get on quicker, 
I think." 

" Thank you," said the veteran, gratefully, 
" I believe we should. The whole thing is 
so confusing, because she talked just like 
a woman from beginning to end. WTiere was 
I ? Ah, yes ! I couldn't see her face very 
well, but her voice and style were those of 
a well-bred woman. She told me that a year 
ago she had lost a brother who was very dear 
to her, and that on his death-bed he had laid 
what she called a sacred charge upon her. 
It seemed he had been befriended at some 
critical time, when he was in India, by an 
English officer of my name, of whom he had 
lost sight for many years. He wished her, if 
possible, to find out that officer and place in 

his hands a memento, something which had 
belonged to himself, in token of his undying 
gratitude. She had made inquiries, and had 
found me in the first place, but understood 
there were others of my name in the Army 

" How did Rudmore get hold of your name, 
I wonder ? " mused the inspector. " He only 
got away from Dartmoor yesterday." 

" That wouldn't have been difficult for his 
sort of man," Trent replied. "Very likely 
he got it out of the housemaid who opened 
the door, before sending up the message." 

The Captain cursed the absent malefactor 
feebly, and took another drink from his 

" I confess I was rather touched. Of course, 
I've usually done a man a good turn when it 
lay in my power, but I couldn't remember 
having played Providence to an American 
at any time. So I asked what his name was. 
She said, their name was Smith. Well, you 
know, I must have run across, about fifty 
Smiths, and I told her so. Then she said she 
had a photograph of him with her. She took 
it out of her bag. It was a picture of a good- 
looking, youngish chap, with the name of 
a Philadelphia firm on the mount." 

" Van Sommeren's photograph," murmured 
Trent. " She carried it about with her. You 
didn't tell me they were on their honeymoon, 

" I felt sure I'd never seen the man," 
continued Captain Ainger, " but I took it to 
the window to have a good look. And the 
moment my back was turned she leapt on me 
and garrotted me. There wasn't a chance for 
me. She was as strong as a tiger, and I'm 
still pretty shaky from a long illness. When 
I was about at my last gasp, she gagged me 
with that infernal thing, then dragged me 
into the bedroom and tied me up with my 
own cord. When I was trussed properly, she 
went through my pockets and took my latch- 
key, then she carried me back to the sitting- 
room. She said she was so sorry to be giving 
me all this trouble, and that she always wished 
women were not so dependent upon men for 
everything. She put her veil up a little way 
and helped herself to a whisky and soda, and 
lighted one of my cigars. After that she took 
a screw-driver out of her bag, and went to 
work at something behind me. I don't know 
in the least what she was doing ; I couldn't 
move. It took about five minutes, I should 
say. Then she skipped to the window, with 
something that looked like a wad of cotton- 
wool in her fingers, and began gloating over 
something I couldn't !>ee, She stood there 



"the moment my back was turned 5HE LKAI'T on me and garrotted MR." 



a long lime, smoking and looking out, and 
then all at once she gave a start and stared 
down into the street. Just after that I heard 
the front-door bell ring. And then she — 
well, she went." 

The Captain's bronzed face went slowly 
scarlet to the roots of his hair. 

"She said good-bye, surely?" murmured 
Trent, looking at him attentively. 

" If you must know," burst out the Cap- 
tain, with his first show of fierceness, " she 
said she didn't know how to thank me, and 
that I was a dear, and might she give me 
a kiss ? So she — she did it." Here his 
narrative dissolved into unchivalrous ex- 
pressions. "And then she went out and 
shut the door. That's all I can tell you." 

He wearily resorted to his tumbler again. 

Trent and the inspector, who had prudently 
avoided catching one another's eyes during 
the last part of the story, now conquered 
their feelings. 

" What I want to know now," the detective 
said, " is where the stuff was hidden here. 
Can you go straight to the place, Mr. Trent, 
or should we have to search ? " 

Trent took the convict's letter from his 

" Let me tell you how I got at it first/' he 
said. " You will be interested. Captain, 
you read it." 

He handed the document to the soldier, 
and gave him a brief account of the circum- 
stances regarding it. 

The Captain, now highly interested, read it 
through carefully twice, then handed it to 
Trent again. 

" I don't believe I should make anything 
out of it in a thousand years," he said. " It 
seems straight enough to me. I should call 
it an interesting letter, that's all." 

" This letter," said Trent, regarding it with 
a look of unstinted appreciation, " is the most 
interesting, by a long way, that I have ever 
read. It tells us, not, I think, where the 
pendant was hidden, but where the diamonds 
of the pendant were hidden by Jim Rudmore 
before his arrest. What Jim did with* the 
setting I don't know, nor does it matter much. 
But the diamonds were concealed here, and 
they are now again, I am afraid, in the 
possession of Jim." 

Inspector Muirhead made an impatient 

" Come to the point, Mr. Trent," he urged. 
" What did you pick up from that letter ? 
Where was the stuff hidden ? " 

" I will tell you first the things I picked up, 
and how. The first time I read the letter — in 

your presence, inspector — I checked at th< 
statement that ' the country looks and smell; 
like the Gelderland country round Apeldijk. 
When one reads that, it naturally occurs tc 
one's mind that Dartmoor is practically s 
mountain district, whereas Gelderland is £ 
part of Holland, most of which country is 
actually below the sea-level." 

" It didn't occur to my mind," observed 
Captain Ainger. 

" Therefore," pursued Trent, unconscious 
of him, " any similarity of look or smell would 
be rather curious, don't you think ? Possibly 
that was what struck the Governor of the 
prison and aroused his suspicions of the letter. 
Well, the next thing that pulled me up was 
the Shakespearean reference. I knew I'd 
read it in Shakespeare, and yet I felt it was 
wrong somehow. There were some words 
missing, I thought. Besides, it didn't look 
like a prose passage ; yet it didn't fit into the 
decasyllabic form, or any other metre. The 
only other notion that occurred to me at 
first glance was that it was an odd thing to 
quote a German phrase when an English one 
would have been just as good. 

"Then I took the letter to the British 
Museum Library, and sat down to the problem 
in earnest. I said to myself that if there was 
any cipher in it, it was probably impossible 
to get at it. But I thought it more likely that 
the message, if any, was conveyed in the 
words as they stood. So I asked myself what 
were the signals that it hung out to a man who 
would be trying to read some inner meaning 
into it ; what things in it were, by ever so 
little, out of the common, so that the reader 
would say to himself, ' This may be a 
pointer ' ? And I had to remember that 
both the Rudmores were said to be clever 
and cultivated men, who understood each 
other well. 

" Now, to begin with, 
* the idol, whose name I 
mantelshelf,' was the sort of thing Rudmore 
pire would have pondered over. Of course, 
we've all seen those little images of the Hindu 
goddess with ten arms. Jim Rudmore, who 
had lived in India for years, said he had for- 
gotten her name. That might possibly be 
meant to draw attention to the name." 

" It's Parvati — heard it thousands of times," 
the Captain interjected. 

" Yes ; I found that name when I looked 
up the Hindu mythology. But there's 
another, by which she is known in Bengal, 
where the Rudmores had had their experience 
of India c There, my book told me, the people 
call her Doorga. So I noted down both 


I thought that 
forget, on your 



names. Very well. Now, the next passage 
that seemed out of the ordinary was that 
about * the Gelderland country round 
Apeldijk.' The first thing I did was to look 
up Apeldi jk in the gazetteer. It mentioned 
no such place ; the nearest thing to it was 
a town called Apeldoorn, which was in Gelder- 
knd sure enough. Then I got a big map, 
and went through Gelderland from end to end. 
As I expected, it was as flat as a board, and 
tbcre was no sign of Apeldijk. But I found 
several towns in Holland ending in € dijk/ 
which shows you what a conscientious artist 
Jim is. Now, if he had really been ill at 
Apeldoorn, as I expect he had been, his 
father would have got a hint at once. I wrote 
down Apeldoorn, and then I began to see 

Mr. Muirhead rubbed his nose with a puzzled 

" I don't see " he began. 

44 You will very soon. Next I turned to 
the odd-looking quotation from Shakespeare. 
On looking up ' joints ' in the Cowden-Clark 
Concordance, I found the passage. It's in 
4 Henry the Fourth/ where Northumberland 

says : — 

And as the wretch, whose fever-weaken'd joints, 
Like strengthless hinges, buckle under life . . . 

What do you think of that ? " 
The inspector shook his head. 
" Well, then, look at the German phrase. 
1 Sie wurden das nicht so hingehen lassen ' means 
' They would not allow that/ or * They would 
not pass that over/ or something of that 
sort. Now suppose a man looking for a 
suggestion or hint in each of those German 

Mr. Muirhead took the letter and conned 
the words carefully. 

" I'm no German scholar/' he began, and 
then his eye brightened. " Those missing 

words " he said. 

" Like strengthless hinges/' Trent reminded 

" Well, and here " — the inspector tapped 
excitedly upon the word hingehen — " you've 
got c hinge ' and ' hen ' in English." 

" You're there ! Never mind the ' hen ' ; 
she's not there on business. Lastly, I'll tell 
you a thing you probably don't know. 
Schraube is the German word for ' screw.' " 

Mr. Muirhead gave his knee a violent blow 
with his fist. 
" Now, then ! " Trent tore a leaf from his 

notebook. " I'll put down the words we've 
got at that were hidden." 

He wrote quickly, and handed the paper 
to the inspector. Both he and Captain 
Ainger read the following : " Doorga, Doorn, 
Hinges, Hinge, Screw" 

" Also," Trent added, " the word ' door ' 
occurs twice openly in the body of the letter, 
and the word ( hinge ' once. That was to 
show old Rudmore he was on the right track, 
if he succeeded in digging out those words. 
* Good/ says he to himself. * The loot is 
hidden under a screw in a hinge on a door 
somewhere. Then where ? ' He turns to the 
letter again, and finds the only address men- 
tioned in it is ' the old rooms in Jermyn 
Street.' And there you are." 

Trent took his screw-driver from his 
pocket, and went to the open door leading 
into the Captain's bedroom. 

" Naturally it wouldn't be the outer door, 
as to get at the hinges one would have to 
have it standing open." He glanced at the 
hinges of the bedroom door. " These screws " 
—he pointed to those on the door-post half 
of the upper hinge — " have had their paint 
scratched a little." 

In a minute or two he had removed all 
three screws. The open door sank forward 
slightly on the lower hinge, and the upper 
one came away from its place on the door- 
post. Beneath it was a little cavity roughly 
hollowed out in the wood. Silently the 
inspector probed it with a penknife. 

" The stones are gone, of course," he 
announced, gloomily. 

" Certainly gone," Trent agreed. " The 
stones were in that little piece of cotton-wool 
the Captain saw him handling." 

Mr. Muirhead rose to his feet. 

" Well, I don't think they'll go far." 

As he took up his hat there was a knock 
at the door, and Hudson entered panting, 
a sharp curiosity in his eyes. 

" A messenger-boy just brought this for 
you, inspector," he wheezed, handing a small 
package to the detective. It was directed 
in a delicate, sloping handwriting to " Inspec- 
tor C, B. Muirhead, C.I.D., care of Captain 
R. Ainger, 230, Jermyn Street." 

Hastily the inspector tore it open. It 
contained a small black su£de glove, faintly 
perfumed. With this was a scrap of paper, 
bearing these words in the same writing : — 

" Wear this for my sake.— J. R." 

(Another adventure of Philip Trent will appear in an early issue.) 

by ^C 





HOSE who pride themselves 
on their knowledge of the 
world of chess will not need 
to be reminded that the people 
of Bohemia are almost un- 
rivalled in the fertility and 
variety of their ideas on the 
game. A well-known authority tells us that, 
though some cavillers are apt to accuse them 

of grinding out variations > few will dispute 
the pre-eminence of the Bohemian school, 
whose skill in the construction of problems 
is amazing. 

When , therefore, somo time ago^ that most 
interesting order, the Sokoh of Prague, 

great Letna Field'/ on tne heights above the 
city, it was perhaps only fitting that one of 



W H. R. 


ana irom 


the chief features of the 

meeting should be a 

giant tournament of 

living chess. 
The society of Sokols 

is one of the most re- 
markable developments 

in the history of modern 

Europe j and few people 

in this country perhaps 

realize what a power it 

is and may eventually 

become* It originated in Prague in the year 
1 86 2 y at a time when Austria was both 

suspicious of and hostile to Bohemia, and 

may be described as a Slav brotherhood. 

Every five or six years there is a great 
festival in Prague, to which Sokols flock from 
the four quarters of the globe to take part 
:n gymnastic and other displays. 

At the time of the festival of which we 
have to tell the whole city was swarming with 
Sokols. There were twenty-four thousand of 
them on the Letna Field as performers or 
onlookers, and each wore the dress of the order 
— blue serge frogged, with high Hessian boots, 
a Hussar jacket slung over one shoulder, and 
* little round cap with a falcon's feather, for 
the word Sokol means falcon, 

Vot JdviL-37. 


But undoubtedly the most picturesque 
event of the meeting was the wonderful Chess 
Tournament, representing the defeat of the 
army of King Sigismund by the Hussite 
troops under the heroic leader Jan Zizka. 
The Church and the King declared a 
crusade for the destruction of heresy, 
and adventurers flocked from all parLs 
of Europe, lured by hopes of pillage. How- 
ever ; such was the enthusiasm of the Hussites 
and the skill of Zizka that before long most 
of the country had fallen into their hands, 
Zizka lost his remaining eye in battle, but 
though blind continued to command the 
victorious army. SigUmund was utterly 
routed an^^ and it is 

of his defeat at the Battle of Kuttenberg and 


Deutschbrod that the tournament treats. 
The chessboard was of mammoth propor- 
tions, divided up into great black and white 
squares (i). Each side was represented by two 
hundred and ten Sokols. All around were 
tribunes which held hosts of spectators. 
Chess-players were hugely interested in 
this novel war game, and ordinary mortals 
were enthralled by the unique scene, which 
carried them back to the costumes and 
methods of warfare of medieval times. It was 
all so realistic and so lifelike. There were the 
encampment of the forces,, the wild dances 
on the eve of 
battle, the songs 
of the soldiery, 
for which special 
music had been 
composed, the 
bivouacs, and 
the watch-fires. 

At each end of 
the I mmense 
ground on which 
the chessboard 
was marked out 
were two great 
gates. The 
nort herly one 
represented the 
city of Kutten- 
berg, where the 
first events of 
the tournament 
were played out; 
the other 
Deu tsc hbrod, 
where the final 
rout of Black 

took place. One of the most 
impressive episodes of the 
whole tournament was the 
entry of the Hussites (2). The 
Royal troops had already 
mi;de their appearance, AVe 
can see them in one of our 
pictures {3) taking their places, 
armed with long lances. It is 
an effective scene, with one 
of Prague's beautiful ok) 
churches in the background. 
Suddenly in the distance is 

by Google 




■■■ ■■ ■ . ■ . m - —- ■ 

King Sigismund and his 
army, which consists of 
Hungarians, Poles, Sile- 
sian troops, and mercen- 
aries, at the opening of 
the game are resting in 
the villages and fortresses 
round Kutlenberg, after 
a series of battles. Sud- 
denly, on , January 6th ? 
1422, Ihe mighty Zizka 
appears like a whirlwind 
and carries the fight into 
the heart of the Royal 
army before they have 
iodized he is upon them. 

heard the wonderful old 
Hussite hymn and battle 
song, '* All yc that arc war- 
riors of the Lord/ 1 It comes 
gradually nearer and nearer. 
Then, soberly and sedately, 
the peasant army, such a 
contrast lo the gay, rollick- 
ing soldiery opposite, march 

(through the gate and finish 
singing their chant as they 
range themselves on the board. 
With rt^ard to the story 

I of the campaign depicted on 

I the chessboard, hen 
it in short. 


In our illustration at the head of this 
article we see Zizka, a massive figure 
mounted on his charger, in the simplest dress, 
and carrying the famous spiked mace with 
which he crushed his assailants. On either 
side of him is a standard-bearer, who unfurls 
the Hussite banner. It bears the badge of 
their faith, the cup. for the Hussites demanded 
the Sacrament in both kinds. 

The left flank is attacked and the centre of 
the army broken up. The King, paralyzed 
with fear, retreats in the utmost confusion, 
followed by the head of his staff, General 
Pipo Span. The peasant army follow pell- 
mell on the hQtiqtrtailrfeodlSernv, who lapse 
into a tim^fPm fflfeHHrtlh" lakcn 

3 o8 






Square. K<V«l Troops. 
'a 7 Regiment of Polish 

b 7 Hungarian regiment. 

^7 » •» 

d 7 Transylvanians. 

«7 .» 

f 7 Hungarians. 

? 7 ^ " 
.h 7 Tartars. 

a 8 Gun carriage. 

b 8 Duke of Transylvania. 

c 8 German commander. 

d 8 King Sigismund. 

e 8 l'ipo Span, chief of the 


f 8 Polish commander. 

g 8 Hungarian magnates. 

h 8 Gun carriage. 



Square, "«""<«• 
f %. 2 Archers, 
b 2 Spearmen, 
c a Scythesmen. 
d a Irregulars. 
e 2 

f a Scythesmen. 
g s Spearmen. 
Mi 2 Archers. 
a i Field wagon, 
b i Commander of the 

Prague troops, 
ex The captain of a 

thousand men. 
d i Zizka. 

e z The ark ot the Hus- 
site Faith, 
f i Commander of the 
Capt. of the Taborites. 
Field wagon. 





refuge at the fortress of Habry, but when 
Zizka arrives and prepares to op?n the attack 
he finds that Sigismund, who fears being 
captured, has again flown. 

King Sigismund is a magnificent but 
sinister personage, cruel and unspeakably 
treacherous ; Zizka, usually above all per- 
sonal malice, is animated with a deadly 
hatred and contempt for him. We see him 
on horseback, sword in hand, clad in coat of 
mail, a long white cloak floating behind him. 
The standard-bearers wear striped black and 
white uniforms, and hold banners on which 
are two shields, one with the eagle of the 
Royal house. 

The winter is a cold and rigorous one, and 
many of the troops perish during their flight. 
The peasants are more inured to all weathers 
than the mercenaries, and under their indomi- 
table leader press on. They find the King and 
his army crossing a frozen river, and are just 
in time to witness a frighlful disaster, for the 

ice breaks under the weight of the guns of the 
Hungarian artillery and thousands lose their 
lives in the stream. 

Six hundred Royal wagons fall into Zizka's 
hands, full of all sorts of plunder. He calls a 
halt, and whilst his men are settling for the 
night, lighting huge watch-fires and singing 
songs of thanksgiving and victory, the King 
flies on and on, leaving the leadership of the 
remnant of troops to the Ambassador of the 
King of Poland. 

Zizka arrives at Deutschbrod, the scene of 
the final struggle, to confront this remnant, 
and after mass begins pourparlers. Whilst 
these are going on, sympathizers in the town 
open a side gate, and before Zizka can control 
his men they pour in and sack the place. The 
Polish Ambassador is taken prisoner with the 
remainder of the Royal troops. 

This puts the crowning points to the 
campaign. The King has crossed the frontier 
and leaves the country for good. Zizfca 
returns to Prague to receive honours and the 
thanks of the nation, and with that the story 
oithe tournament comes to an end. 

The following is the game as actually 
played : — 


x. P to Q R 4 

2. P to K 4 

3. P to Q 4 

4. Q takes P 
5 to Q x 

6. P to Q Kt 4 

7. B to K B 4 

8. B to Q B 4 
•0. BtoQKt 3 
xo. Kt to Q B 3 
it. Q to K R 5 

12. Q to K R 3 

13. B to Q Kt 2 

14. K Kt to K 2 

15. R to Q 1 

16. R to Q 2 
Kt to K 1 


B 3 


PtoQ 3 
P takes P 
Kt to Q B 3 
Kt to K 4 
P to OB 3 
Kt to Q 2 
KttoQKt 3 
B toQ 2 

P to Q R 3 
P to K Kt 3 
B to K Kt 2 
K Kt to K 2 
R to K Kt 1 
Q to Q B a 
RtoQ 1 
P to Q B 4 


18. P to K s P take* K P 

19* P takes Q B P Q takes P at 

QB 4 
20. U Kt to K 4 
31. P takes KP 

22. P to Q R 5 

23. B to Q 5 

24. Kt takes Kt 

25. K takes B 

26. Q to R 5t ch K to K 2 

27. B to R 3, ch K to K 3 

28. Kt to Kt Sj ch K tak«*s K P 

29. P to Q B 4 Q takes QBP 

30. K to K B 5 

31. K toK6 

32. Q to K B 3, mate 

Q to Q B 3 
KttoKB 4 
Kt to Q B x 
Q to Q Kt 4 
P takes Kt 


m iji; \QiM 


^ '''*•' 





CI i<Fl^l rf l€M¥CKMATK. 




With extreme skill the Sokol chess-players 
devised a game which represented as faith- 
fully as passible this historical episode. The 
places of the r< pieces " on the board are shown 
on the diagram (4), It must be carefully- 
borne in mind that these pieces are 
quite different from those of the ordinary 
game, although their moves are, of course , 
the same. 

Zizka, being the most important figure 
among the White men., is the Queen, and 
makes dashing sallies up and down the board. 
The White King is represented by a field 
altar or ark, symbolizing the Hussite creed 
and ideals. This is a very telling group. 
The ark is attended by Hussite bishops and 
clergy. These fighting priests are fine, 
stalwart old fellows, with flowing white beards. 
They wear three-cornered birettas and velvet 
robes, with sashes round their waists. One 
bears a staff surmounted by a star (6), another 
a chalice, and in attendance on them is an 
acolyte who carries a banner with their badge, 
the cup. 

King Sigismund plays the Black Queen, as 
he was never captured by the Hussites, but 
his chief commander, Pipo Span, is cornered 
by Zizka, and therefore takes the part of the 
Chess King. 

The first part of the game unfolds itself 
round the camp of the King, gradually 
developing, and showing Zizka' s sagacity and 
mastery of the game of guerrilla warfare. His 
amazing skill in creating from the rawest 
material an almost invincible army which 
struck terror into the hearts of the chivalry 
of Europe seems well-nigh incredible. 

With the accompanying diagram (5) we find 
the thirty-two moves which made up the 
game. White begins the attack with Q R P 
to P 4, indicating Zizka 1 s plan for outflanking 
the enemy. The pawn was represented by a 
detachment of archers armed with crossbows. 
In the large group of Hussite soldiery (2) we 
can see these archers in front supporting their 
curious bows on the top of their still more 
curious shields. It may be noticed what an 
extraordinary medley of uniforms and weapons 
they display. 

Zizka, who was the greatest military 
genius of the time, decided, with his usual 
wisdom, that it would be useless to expect 
Peasants taken straight from the land to 
team at once how to use muskets, lances, and 
swords, or to clothe themselves in cumbersome 
breastplates and armour. Therefore the 
Hussites' shields were usually of wood, home 
Manufactured, sometimes even of skins 
stretched on a lining. 

As to their weapons, they were of the most 
curious and unexpected order. Instead of 
lances they used scythes or ploughshares. 
Often a whole regiment would be armed with 
flails studded with iron nails. Cavalry was 
the chief bugbear of these peasant troops, 
for they had practically none themselves, and 
the riders of the enemy were often irresistible 
in their onslaught. Then Zizka devised a 
protection, and had huge hooks attached to 
the spears of the spearmen* When the 
cavalry dashed at them they would adroitly 
catch these hooks in the collars or accoutre- 
ments of the riders, and became so skilful at 
the game that they would often drag them 
from the saddle, or at any 
rate manage to terrify the 
horses by these strange 

From the Hungarians 
comes the answer to Zizka ^s 
attack, and Transylvanian 
truops advance from the 

riginal from 

6_A W^^IW&mflf&^H* ARK, 



centre. To stop their advance the scythesmen 
go forward j whereupon more Transylvanians 
from the centre reinforce their comrades. 

Zizka now orders a detachment of irregulars 
armed with flails to advance, but these are 
bealen by the Hungarians and the pawn is 
captured. Zizka promptly takes vengeance 
and seizes the Hungarians, but has to retire, 
as the Hungarian magnates in the shape of 
a knight threaten him (7). Gradually his left 
wing advances, and the first sixteen moves 
lire occupied with his preparations for battle 
and his care in taking up the most 
advantageous position, 

Zizka has now finished his preparations, 
but has given Sigismund no chance to 
organize properly, The Hussite infantry 
advance in the centre, the Hungarians 
meet them, but are slain by the spearmen* 
Sigismund is tempted from his protected 
position f and finds himself almost in the 
arms of the commander of the Prague 
division, Hvezda, who, without waiting 
a moment, 
attacks him. 
The King re- 
treats s i d e- 
ways,aad there 
*s a skirmish 
between the 
Hungarian troops in the 
centre and the Hussites, which 
ends in the former bein 
seized with a panic 
position of Pipo Span, the 
Black King, is then un- 
covered, but the cavalry of 
the Hungarian magnates, a 
Black knight, hurries to his 



One of the Hussite com- 
manders, in the shape of 
a bishop, forces Sigismund back. Then, 
at a critical moment, the panic-stricken 
Tartars (8) dare not advance, and the Hun- 
garian infantry rush into the breach with 
a badly -thought -out attack. More dis- 
aiters happen. Pipo is stopped by the 
Hussite archers, anJ whilst trying to defy 

a iToupof scythes- 
men he is attacked 
by the commander 
of the Hussite 
troops from 
Prague. There is a 
desperate battle, 
but Pipo still hopes 
against hope that 
he may be relieved 
By the twenty-ninth move we 
know that his fate is sealed. 
Sigismund, in trying to come to 
his assistance, is stopped by the 
scythesmen, who sacrifice their 
r v T es for the cause, and are 
successful in arresting the Black 

Through a free space the 
archers attack the Black King. 
Pipo Span is driven into the 
centre of Zizka* s army between 

Originaft?offf es of J"*®**- ** «£ 


move he is 





caught by Zizka, who gives him the 

The finale is most dramatic* At the 
instant the King surrenders his sword, the 
entire Royal army and its command ers, 
seized with a panic, rush headlong from the 
field, The Hussites pursue them* But a few 
moments later the victors return through the 
gate and slowly march the length of this 
chessboard and out at the other gateway, 
singing their battle hymn as they go. 

In the large illustration (1), showing the 
whole field of play, one of the wagons, repre- 
senting a castle, which was instrumental 
in causing the downfall of the Black 
King, deserves a few words of explanation. 
These wagons were among the most ingenious 
and distinctive features of Hussite warfare. 
Owing to the necessity for protecting his 
lightly-armed men, Zizka practically invented 
this means of defence. The wagons were 
covered with sheets of steel, and were linked 
together with iron chains, usually in four lines 
or columns. Everyone except the cavalry 
took refuge within them, and in case of defeat 
the wagons formed a fortified entrenchment, 
They were also used for offensive operations. 
In this case, the crack shots were placed 
next l he driver. Like the Boer farmers, 
the Hussite peasants became famed for 

their deadly aim, and before long they 
put the fear of God into the hearts of the 

Sometimes a few of the biggest and strongest 
men would walk in front carrying a pole pro- 
vided at the end with a short length of chain. 
To this chain was attached a large wooden 
sphere the size of a football, studded all over 
with iron nails. This they would swing round 
and round, and woe betide the unfortunate 
mortal whe ame their way I 

All praise is due to those who clothed the 
tournament in its wonderful historic dress. 
The marches, the battle array, and, more 
particularly, the irresistible onslaught of the 
Royal cavalry were peculiarly effective and 
inspiriting. Each phase was set to music, as 
was only fitting, for music played a gTeat 
part in the Hussites' life. Each chess-piece 
had its ow F n individual air, which not only 
gave a charm to the proceedings, but a 1 so 
afforded a useful clue to the performers by 
announcing that their turn had come. 
Everyone seemed to know his part, and the 
four hundred and twenty performers had 
evidently not only been well drilled, but 
were, moreover, animated with the keenest 
patriotic enthusiasm whilst living over again 
the heroic deeds of their Fatherland in those 
far-ofi days, 




EEL that; 1 
said Wag- 
I felt, 

" Not bad, is it ? " 
he suggested, in a 
tone of modest satis- 

11 It's amazing ! " 
I unhesitatingly re- 

And so it was. His 
extended arm was 
straight and stiff, 
and hard as a board. 
It bruised my fingers 
to touch it, or so at 
least I fancied. In 
reality I suppose the 
sensation was simply 
due to the mental 
shock of the unex- 

u How on earth do 
you manage it ? " I 
asked, in genuine 
wonder. " You're as 
hard as nails. You 
look as fit as a fiddle. 
Why is a fiddle fit ? 
— but let that pass. 
And yet you never 
seem to t^ke any 

exercise. You really HffiHEBa^ 5 

ought to be a most 
diseased person, 

living as you do, drat you ! " I confess 
I envied the fellow his arrogant muscu- 

il My average last week was thirteen hours' 
work a day," said Wagster, heartily, " Once 
I got out to lunch, just fur a treat, and I dined 
regularly, or irregularly^ at ten o'clock at 

Harold Steevens 

Illustrated Sy 


" You ought to be 
in your grave/ 1 I 
said ; " and you will 
be — one day, It is 
quite time you were 
breaking up/ 3 

" Breaking up be 
sugared ! " said Wag- 
ster 7 with slangy 
exuberance. Then he 
added, i neons e- 
qucntly, u Can you 
do this?" 

Stepping behind 
my chair, he took the 
back of it in his 
hands, and deftly 
shot me off the seat ; 
as 1 staggered to 
gain rny feet, I saw 
him grasp the top 
hack rail firmly in 
his hand, lift the 
chair from the 
ground, and extend 
it horizontally in 
front of him. For a 
moment he heid it 
there with out- 
stretched arms j the 
»\t of the chair 
standing up in air 
and the four Ufi 
pointing towards me. 
Next j keeping trie 
chair in the same 
horizontal position, he slowly drew in his arms 
until his wrists nearly touched his chin, l^-" 1 
thrust them out again. He did this several 
times with an easy, regular movement. Then 
he put the chair down. 

" It looks pretty easy/' I said. 

" You try it/' he invited me, with an 

"^ai ifam 

Set * 

This story will be /timed and shown at the Ci»ettiaty$$^ffi^t$t[ ffi)fltl$fa£t\)tlie country, 

announcement on the back of the frontispiece. 



It was witTi 
some confidence 
that I took a 
firm grasp of 
the chair, lifted 
ii from the 
ground, and 
it before me. 
Rather, I 
should say, I 
endeavoured to 
do so, for just 
as I was on the 
point of stiffen- 
ing my arms to 
a steel-li ke 
rigidity the legs 
of the chair 
began to sag, 
and in spite of 
my utmost 

endeavours continued to do so until they 
ignommiously bumped the floor* I made 
several attempts, always with the same result. 

The blow to my self-esteem was tempered 
by Wagster's magnanimity, 

<( Simply a matter of practice/' he said, 
airily. " Couldn't do it myself three weeks 

"But what started you on this extra- 
ordinary racket ? " I asked. 


"Well, you 
see/' said Wag- 
Liter, " I have 
no time for out- 
door exercise 
just now, and I 
got so sick of 
being everlast- 
ingly stale. I 
felt I wasn't 
working well — 
and I had to do 
something. One 
night at the 
club I saw 
some body doing 
this for a lark, 
and the s idea 
came to me 
that it was 
just the kind of 
thing I wanted. 
Now, whenever I see a chair I get at it 
wherever it is — at home, at the club, in the 
office here, or in somebody else's office — it's 
all the same to me. Your apparatus is always 
handy. It creates enormous interest, I can 
tell you- But do you mind if I get on with 
my letters ? " 

M By all means/* I said. 

He rang for the typist, and began dictating 



v ol. *lvij._3& 


Original from 


Tits Strand magazine. 



at a rapid rate. He himself did not sit down, 
but stood or strolled about the room, occasion- 
ally pausing at his desk to glance at some 
name or address. 

Suddenly he stood stock still behind his 
office-chair and, measuring the distance with 
his eye, deftly swung up his right leg and 
placed his foot on top of the chair-back. It 
was one of those high-backed chairs and, to 
an observer, the position seemed a difficult 

one. As soon as he had 

made sure of his balance, 
he leaned over gingerly 
and placed the tips of 
his fingers on that part 
of the floor which lay 
between his foot and the 
chair. In this peculiar 
posture he remained 
while he finished his 

The typist displayed 
no agitation ; obviously 
she was used to Wag- 
sterns original methods 
of dictation. 

fi That's a splendid 
one for the figure/ 7 said 
my friend when he had 
recovered his normal 
petition. " I use the 
bedstead - rail for it 
every morning when I 
get out of bed. It makes 
a grand morning stretch. 
If I have plenty of time, I stop on my way 
to the station and try it on a garden-fence, 
1 have done it before now on the ledge of the 
booking-office window, but it caused pain 
to the booking-clerk , and I have not repeated 
the performance. Now, Miss Brown, write to 

Messrs. Spillikins and say- 

Wagster's official letters were not my 
business^ but I was much interested to observe 
him, being half-way through his letter and 


METHODS OF DlCTATIO^j g j n fl | f rom 




momentarily at a loss for a word ? behave in 
the following singular manner- 
He took his stand with his hack to the wall 
and his feet about a yard away from it. 
Then he flung up his hands and rested them 
on the wall behind his shoulders, at the same 
time arching his back and throwing back his 
head until he assumed the outline of an 
inverted letter " U." As he bent lower and 
lower his hands also travelled down wards , 
just as if he were walking down the wall on 
his hands until they touched the skirting- 
This curious manoeuvre seemed to stimulate 

" That's strychnine ! " he ejaculated, and 
dashed for the telephone, 

As he raised the receiver, Wagster, with a 
final twist, stood upright again, and, panting 
from his exertions, at once stepped towards 
his chief, 

tl It's all right, sir/ 5 he managed to say. 
* I'm very sorry. I'm only exercising. I'm 
so sorry to have startled you." 

At first the chief seemed inclined to be 
irritable, after the shock he had sustained. 
But he was fond of Wagster and listened, 
first patiently, then with amusement, and 
finally with genuine interest, while Wagster 


the brain in some way, for, while so placed, 
he found the word he was seeking, and got 
through the letter without further check, his 
voice reverberating sepulch rally from the 
flat surface of the wall- 
Next he proceeded to walk back up the 
wall. Before he could complete the ascent, 
the door suddenly opened and his chief 
entered the room. Glancing swiftly towards 
Wagster's empty chair, he said, " Mr, Wagster 
not here ? " and was turning to leave the 
room again j when he caught sight of the 
distorted Wagster desperately struggling to 
regain that erect stature which distinguishes 
the lord of creation from the beasts. 

The chief started back, then stood stock 
still, a look of wonder on his face. 

" Why — what — Mr, Wagster " His 

words came haltingly, in his surprise. Then 
an idea seemed to strike him., -fiiA iace 
blenched visibly, 

expounded his theory of office athletics. In 
less than five minutes all three of us were 
simultaneously practising Wagster's repertoire 
of exercises. The typist had long since fled. 

" I should like you to try this one, sir/' 
said Wagster, with an engaging air of 
innocence } and as he spoke he raised his arms 
above his head and, bending over forwards, 
touched his toes with his finger-tips. 

" That is easy, Wagster," said the chief. 
'* Why, we used to do it years ago when I was 
a boy." Wagster made no reply but went on 
bending, so to speak, until not only his fingers 
and thumbs but also the palms of his hands 
lay flat and firm on the floor. Then, keeping 
his legs perfectly straight and stiff, without 
even the suggestion of a kink at the knees, he 
calmly walked across the room on all fours. 

It was an extraordinary if somewhat 
ungainly performarict, and I was not surprised 
to see tUttftlEifi$fftf '3fii£ inclined, to shy at it. 



He was afflicted, if I may put it so, with 
considerable abdominal development, 

" No, Wagster," he said, as my friend rose 
easily to the upright position il 1 am not so 
slim as I was " 

■* No, sir ? " Wagster struck iiij with a 
quizzical glance at his chiefs corporal profile. 

" There is no need for you to be offensive, 
Wagster/' replied the chief, with a rueful 
smile. " Show me something a little more 
suitable to a man— well, a man of forty-five." 

" You would do it in six weeks, sir, if you 

of the chief to start from the floor , but 
Wagster had done the thing with apparent ease 
and his self-confidence was infectious. 

We helped the chief to step on to the pile 
and gave him a hand till he got his balance * 
He motioned us away, then stretched his 
arms above his head, and with a fine sweeping 
movement doubled himself forward, 

He really did uncommonly well, for he gut 
his fingers considerably below his knees. 

" Bravo ! " cried Wagster, with enthusiasm. 
" A bit lower, sir ! Stick to it ! " 


practised every day. But this way is just as 
amusing." He went over to a revolving 
bookcase and took out a thick volume, which 
he laid on the floor, 

" An encyclopaedia is almost a necessity in 
these days/ 1 he said, and immediately stood 
on it, Then, bending over as before, and 
keeping his knees rigid, he easily touched the 
floor with his finger-tips. 

"That's all right/' he said. "Now for 
another one." He got out another volume of 
the encyclopaedia and put it on the first ; the 
two together made a platform seven inches 
high, as I estimated. Wagster balanced 
himself carefully, bent over, and again 
succeeded in touching the floor. 

A third volume was just enough for him, 
however. His middle fingers touched; but 
the others were always a fraction of an inch 
short of the carpet, 

" I should like to try that/* said the chief, 
11 Give me a hand, Wagster," 

The three volumes made a pile nearly a 
foot high. It would certainly have been wise 

Wagster's encouragement and, I think, a 
certain surprise at his own success stimulated 
the chief to a still greater effort. He set his 
teeth and lunged forcefully downwards, 
Unfortunately his effort, though spirited, was 
a little over- violent, In his desire to get his 
hands down he got his body too far forward, 
over- balanced himself, waved his arms spas- 
modically in a futile effort to recover his centre 
of gravity, and slowly pitched head foremost. 

" Tuck in your tuppenny ! n shouted 
Wagster, and the chief understood, for we saw 
him, with a short, quick movement, thrust his 
chin into his necktie* Before we could save 
him he struck the floor heavily with his head, 
rolled over, and went, sprawling on his back 
in the middle of the room, 

Wagster's face turned white. I must say 
that I was alarmed too, for the chief was no 
chicken. However, as we sprang to raise 
him, we were relieved to hear him say, in his 
normal voice, " Wagster, I give you a month's 
notice — to take effect when you get me on to 
your confi;ur>kui ^cyclopaedias again." 





Tke Memoirs of tke Infanta Eulalia — sister of tke late King of Spain 
and aunt of tke reigning Sovereign — will be found of unique interest. 
For tke first time in history a Princess of tke Royal Blood Las told 
tke story of ker own life, witk all ker thoughts and feelings, from ker 
earliest days. Tke Memoirs are brilliantly written, and provide a most 
striking picture of Court life as seen from tke inside. 


SUPPOSE that no one who 
has not lived at a Court will 
believe how narrow in its 
interests the Royal life can 
be. It is the life of a little 
family isolated by an imper- 
vious etiquette from the im- 
mensities of life that are about it. One can 
read, and hear, and be aware of the life of the 
nation at second hand ; one cannot approach 
it intimately. And the little family revolves 
upon itself, with its own gossip, its own 
scandal, its own jealousies and ambitions, its 
own jokes, and its own quarrels, in a kind of 
Royal cloister, surrounded by invisible walls. 
During those first years of my brother's reign, 
laws were passed, debates were conducted, 
the Liberals and Conservatives struggled 
together for office, elections were held, revolts 
were put down. I heard nothing of it. Or if 
I did, it made so little impression on my 
interest that it made none on my memory. 
I remember that now the famous Premier 
Sagas t a would be at the palace daily, and now 
his famous rival, Canovas ; but that was 
politics merely ; and politics were to us 
princesses what business would be to the 
daughters of an American millionaire. 

The entourage that surrounded us in the 
palace of Madrid went with us to the mountains 
when the Court removed to the summer 
palace of La Granja, which is the Versailles 

Copyright in all countries 

of Spam, and modelled after Versailles. There 
we fished and hunted and rode and made 
excursions like a house-party at an English 
country seat. And* when we went to San- 
tander for the sea-bathing, it was the same' 
The same people accompanied us, the same 
routine of life engaged us, the same round of 
interests confined our minds. 

Contrary to the popular tradition about 
Courts, there was very little of the scandal of 
which the " secret memoirs " of ladies-in- 
waiting have so much. Conditions in Spain 
did not encourage such stories, particularly 
among the aristocracy that came to Court. 
A Spanish lady would not even receive a call 
from a man if her husband were not at home ; 
she could not walk alone in the streets ; and, 
there being no divorce possible — and the 
jealousy of the Spanish husband so deadly — 
if she were foolish enough to engage in any 
love intrigues, the act would have to be too 
secret ever to become a matter of gossip. 

And there was nothing but such aristocracy 
at Court. We did not see — as one would at 
a French Court, for example — judges, or 
lawyers, or academicians, or artists, or 
professors, or great engineers of public works, 
or even many military or naval officers, 
except the King's aides. Such men might be 
presented at audiences, but did not enter into 
our social life. Nothing but aristocracy. 
These had few interests,, and therefore few 

under ihe Convention. 



topics of conversation. They shot rabbits 
and partridges, but did not hunt. They did 
not talk of sports, since they played no games 
— except card games that went on inter- 
minably, afternoons and evenings. Sport, in 
those days in Spain, was an affair of the lower 
classes wholly. They were fond of music, so 
we had musicales — and, of course, dances. 
When we had clever foreign visitors who 
talked entertainingly, the aristocrat was bored; 
the expression of ideas wearied him. He had 
manners, presence, dignity, but no activity 
either of body or mind. 

The diplomats we had always with us, and 
they make one of the traditionally brilliant 
circles of Court life ; but I found, of all men 
in modern Courts, the diplomats the most 
absurd. If the kings have had their powers 
curtailed, the Court diplomats have lost theirs 
altogether. They are a useless survival of 
the days when the relations between nations 
depended on the feelings between Sovereigns, 
and the diplomats intrigued and flattered to 
some purpose, by smoothing over misunder- 
standings or exasperating offence. Nowadays, 
a Court diplomat has no power except to 
deliver the message of his home Government. 
He is not entrusted with secrets, any more 
than an errand-boy. And he is usually 
stupid. If a family of* position has a son 
who is not quite bright, they say, " Put him 
in the diplomatic service. " He goes to a 
foreign Court and devotes himself to attending 
Royal funerals and christenings and weddings 
and church services and Court functions, as 
the " representative " of his Government — 
and, if he is a Russian or a Southerner, he 
spends the rest of his time flattering the 
ladies whose husbands have Government 
authority, in an attempt to obtain informa- 
tion from them which their husbands have 
let fall. 

Like the public warning, " Beware of 
Pickpockets/' in places of public resort, the 
drawing-rooms of Court society should put 
up the sign, " Beware of Diplomats." The 
English representatives and the Scandinavians 
are not so fond of intrigue, but too many of 
the others are the official eavesdroppers and 
detectives of their Governments, and it is 
chiefly simple women who are their victims — 
women who can be blinded by pretended 
admiration and led into confidences that are 
indiscreet. It is not an occupation for a 
clever man, and few clever men remain in it 
long. The majority of those whom I have 
known were total idiots who would swallow 
absurdly wrong information without blinking, 
and convey it eagerly to their home Govern- 

ments without suspicion. I have tried it, to 
find out. And I found the typical conversa- 
tion of diplomats all in one key of vanity : an 
assurance that when they were at one Court 
the king showed them " special favours," and 
when they were at another Court, the same. 
It is a conversation that would weary a 
mistress of the robes. It cannot add much 
intellectual stimulus to the life of Royalty. 
I could never see that it added any to mine. 

Nevertheless, whether with' diplomats or 
what not, these days moved along for us very 
brightly. We were young and active. My 
brother and his wife were idyllically happy in 
their married life ; and their happiness was 
reflected in all around them. He was working 
with the prospect of greater success to come 
with greater experience, living simply, taking 
healthful exercise, using tact and patience, 
and keeping a cheerful hope. Then, in the 
sixth month of his marriage, the heart was 
cut out of it all by the death of his young 
Queen after a miscarriage that resulted in 
blood-poisoning from some bungling of the 
doctors. They treated her for typhoid fever 
and blundered about for weeks, till a putre- 
faction had set in that no treatment could 

She was buried in the Escurial, and my 
brother would not leave the palace. Every 
day he would shut himself up, for hours, in 
the crypt where her tomb was ; and when we 
tried to coax him away he would not speak 
to us. It was midsummer and the heat was 
extreme, but he would not leave her body to 
go to La Granja. He would not do anything 
but grieve, in a silence that worried us more 
than the wildest outburst, neglecting himself 
and his duties, taking no exercise, sunken in 
a mood of passionate despair that seemed to 
have put him beyond our reach. He did not 
sleep. We coaxed him to come out for a little 
fresh air in the early mornings about five 
o'clock, and again in the evenings after sunset, 
but it was months before I succeeded in 
getting him to ride on horseback. The 
Spaniards do not understand a grief that is 
silent, and the report was spread that he was 
a bit mad. He did not care. He seemed 
to have lost interest in life entirely; and, as 
the months passed, we were afraid that his 
health would be destroyed. 

We knew that he was tubercular. It was 
hereditary in our family, and my own lungs 
were affected ; but Royalty is not allowed to 
be ill, and we had to struggle with the situa- 
tion privately, in a way to keep the knowledge 
of it from spreading beyond the inner circle 
of offi.daldcn*.- My. ,-sis^erL, Pilar, who was 



always delicate, had developed symptoms of to recognize that the day of the warrior kings 
what was supposed to be some sort of skin was o% ? er, and he was occupied with attempts 
disease, and the doctors ordered her to a 
resort in the mountains, to take the baths. 
Soon after our arrival there she became un- 
conscious, and died, two days later, of 
meningitis* For all this I now blame the 
state of medical practice in Spain, In a 
country where education is wholly in the 
hands of the religious orders, and the hos- 
pitals in the 
hands of the 
nuns, there will 

be neither a good 

supply of medical 

students nor 

opportunities for 

them to perfect 

their studies 

under conditions 

that are good. 

We had to pay 

the penalty with 

the rest of Spain, 
My brother 

never really re- 
covered from this 

blighting of his 

life. He took up 

his work again, 

at first listlessly 

and then as an 

escape from him- 
self ; but the 

young and happy 

part of him was 

gone with his 

young wife , and 
he had nothing 
left but the care 
and activities of 
his position. He 
was only twenty 
years of age, 
though he seemed 
oider. Since 
there was no heir 
to the throne, 
the Government 
began immedi- 
ately to talk of arranging another marriage 
for him, He said he did not care, so long as 
he was not bothered about it, and negotiations 
were at once begun, It was a sad life for a 
charming man. He would have been much 
happier if he had never been a king. 

Meanwhile, he returned to us for companion- 
ship, and I began to hear a great deal from 
him of his work and his plans, He had come 




to promote the industrial development of the 
country. He never wore a uniform except 
when he attended the army manoeuvres or 
took part in some such military display, and 
he laughed at the kings who went about as 
soldiers, always on parade. He saw to the 
founding of arsenals for the manufacture of 
munitions of war, and he struggled to correct 

the dishonesty in 
the expenditure 
of ap propria I ions 
for the army and 
the navy, but he 
was not in love 
with the show of 
military pomp. 

He tried to per- 
suade the gran- 
dees' sons to 
enter the army 
as officers — on 
the theory, as he 
said p that ** occu- 
pation is the 
salvation of a 
man" — but with- 
out success* The 
a r i s t o cracy of 
Spain is landed, 
but too indolent 
even to oversee 
the administra- 
tion of their 
estates ; and they 
called the Due 
de Montpensier, 
"the orange- 
man/ 1 because 
he directed the 
exporting of his 
orange crop to 
England, instead 
of letting it rot 
on the ground. 
Like so many 
they would do 
anything for money except work for it. They 
were content to take wealth and honour from 
the nation without making any return. In 
common with the Court diplomats, they had 
almost lost their reason for being. 

All the mines and many of the large manu- 
facturing industries of Spain are in the hands 
of foreigners, because the na.ives have no 
training IJfcU'iEfehl TjfccQ^idtuttL'jAttiey have a 



hatred of foreigners that prevents them from 
learning, and the King was always arguing 
against this hatred and trying to devise means 
of overcoming it. He set the example himself 
of going frequently abroad to study the improve- 
ments in foreign countries—getting the sanction 
of the Parliaments for his journeys by the 
simple expedient of letting them know, good- 
humou redly, that if they did not give it he 
would go without it — and he came back with 
ideas which he tried to apply, Spain was sadly 
lacking in railroads, and he 
had maps and plans drawn 
up for building them, and 
worked to finance them, 
but I do not recall with 
what success. The great 
enemy of all such public 
works is the official dis- 
honesty in Spain, and with 
this my brother was always 
at war, I am told that the 
corruption was not as bad 
{luring his reign as it was 
before and has been since. 
He fought it par- 
ticularly among the 
Customs officials 
and tax - gatherers, 
and such collectors 
of the Government 
income, and he 
made himself much 
feared among them. 
He worried about 
the excessive crimi- 
nality in Spain, 
interne wed judges, 
and tried to find out 
and ameliorate the 
conditions lhat pro- 
duced the crime. His 
influence was potent, 
because Spain will 
accept a great deal 

from a Sovereign. I used to tell him that it 
was lucky he looked like a Spaniard, for he 
had not the brain of one ; and if he had had 
my colouring, his ideas would have aroused 
antagonisms that would have defeated him 
at every turn. He was, as I have saidj 
supremely tactful, and he had a patience that 
was incredible to me. He had not my habit 
of saying what is in one's mind, inopportunely. 
He could wait, and speak in better time. 

The arrangements for his second marriage 
he had left wholly in the hands of my sister 
Isabel and her advisers, who were, of course, 
Clerical. It was considered impossible for 

Digitized by Vj* 



Froni a PluiuffiUfih by F* r namto Itebat, Madrid. 

the King of Spain 
to marry a Pro- 
testant prim 
and, of the 
Catholic Royal 
families, the 
Italian princesses 
were eliminated 
from the choice 
because of the 
quarrel between 
the Italian Court 
and the Vatican, Negotiations were opened, 
therefore, with the Court of Vienna, and 
a marriage was arranged between my 
brother and the Austrian archduchess Maria 
Cristina- It was celebrated about a year 
after the death of his first wife. He had 
two daughters by this marriage — both of 
whom have since died in childbirth — and a 
posthumous son, the present King, born six 
months after my brother's death* 

He died in November, 1885, but it was not 
until the previous month, October, that we 
had any idea he was seriously ill. It seemed 
impossible that a man so active could be 




unwell. He had an energy both in 
work and recreation that wore out 
everybody else. He lived with the 
most healthful .simplicity, from 
habit, eating in moderation, drink- 
ing no wine, enjoying exercise with- 
out weariness, and 
taking cold baths that 
one would not have 
thought a consump- 
tive could endure. He 
showed no signs of 
fever that I knew of. 
The doctors, if they 
had noticed any 
alarming symptoms, 
did not speak of them 
to us ; and we were 
only vaguely aware 
that he had to be care- 
ful of himself. But 
in October he com- 
plained of weakness, 
and the physicians 
suddenly told us that 
his lungs were very 

VoL Jtlvii— 39. 

'J Ml- 



Pram a PKotoQrfijA hi/ tfniatonna* dt 
Tapcmter. fans. 

bad. Even so, the matter 
had to be kept secret — for 
I car of unnecessarily dis- 
turbing the business of the 
State. We went to the 
mountains in give him rest 
and treatment. And before 
we had really accepted the 
thought that he was an 
invalid ? he was taken with 
a haemorrhage of the lungs, 
cried out that he was chok- 
ing, and died almost with 
the words* 

He was buried in the 
Escurial — where we had 
laughed together at the 
. tombs of the Infantas— 
infanta jiuLALiA. 'igifilAifign-feLil the kings, who 

pkoioffnpk by lAiua* oriM^ [\ |y ERSI T YKjfcB htk44teA f'fcow only the 



names of kings — no-longer brothers, husbands, 
fathers — just dead kings — as he had become. 

His death was, I think, a great loss to the 
country, for the King of Spain has much 
power under the Constitution, if he has the 
ability to handle the instruments of his 
authority in a way to have his orders carried